


Poison & Wine

by devirnis



Series: (You Could Be My) Ever After [4]
Category: Gears of War (Video Games)
Genre: 30 Day OTP Challenge, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff without Plot, Prompt Fill, just a whole lot of fluff really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-15 12:26:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 35,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3447137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devirnis/pseuds/devirnis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Baird and Sam, before and after, together and apart. The gut-level honest pull and tug of affection and affliction. 30 prompts, 30 oneshots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> Originally published [here](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/9999985/1/Poison-Wine) in January 2014.
> 
> A collection of oneshots based on the 30 Day Writing Challenge on Tumblr. These were originally published in a different order, but here I've uploaded them chronologically. The title (and the description) comes from [Poison & Wine](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WfzRlcnq_c0) by the Civil Wars, which is a beautiful song and you should listen to it and cry about how perfect it is with me.
> 
> Spanish translation also available [here](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10823316/1/Veneno-vino)

The first thing she noticed was the blonde hair. And the goggles.

Sam knew who he was before she ever saw him in person. First he was just the Cole Train's asshole friend. But now he was the asshole who was there for the Lightmass Bomb and the sinking of Jacinto, the asshole in Delta—the squad continually trusted to save the world.

So the goggles and hair colour caught her eye, and she finally put a face to the name on Vectes. Somehow the COG felt a lot smaller after leaving Embry Province. She knew more of the Gears now, and interacted with them more often. Living on a small island would do that. And as a result of the "disagreements" with the local Stranded, Sam found herself out in the field more often. She'd defused IEDs with him watching. They had even exchanged a few casual words.

She didn't know what drew her to him. Maybe it really was as shallow as the hair colour; blondes weren't too common for some reason. Or maybe it was the disinterested bad-boy attitude. Or his reputed intelligence. Whatever attracted her to him in the first place didn't matter. After their last brief encounter, she had decided that it was time to make a move.

When she came into the main mess bar with Frank Muller, she immediately spotted the blonde sitting alone at the bar. Muller grabbed a table and started setting up for their game, and she went to buy the first round.

He had an almost-empty pint glass in front of him; that was her way in. She paid for two shots and then sidled up beside him.

"Come on, Baird. Don't be an antisocial dick all your life. Take a day off." She slid one of the shot glasses towards him. "Muller's teaching us to play navy chess."

Baird turned and gave her a cold stare. "Oh, that's so exciting. I think I just wet my pants."

She paused, completely taken aback. The acidity in his voice was so unexpected, so uncalled for, that it took a moment before she registered what had happened. Indignity set in seconds later.

"Fuck you, then." She snatched the shot away from him and stalked over to Muller.

Muller either hadn't noticed or was nice enough to pretend that he hadn't seen anything. He thanked Sam for the shot she shoved his way and started to explain the rules of navy chess. Sam only half-listened, still feeling the sting from Baird's rejection. It bothered her that she was so put off by it. Usually _she_ was the one doing the rejecting; very rarely did someone shut her down. And the _coldness_ of it all made it so much worse. He didn't give a shit about her. He didn't give a shit about anyone except himself, and maybe Augustus Cole.

The game began and Sam forced herself to pay attention. She planned on getting absolutely shit-faced tonight. The last couple days had passed without incident and it had been ages since she just sat down and played a game with friends.

And fuck Damon Baird. That uptight, self-centred little prick of a corporal wasn't worth getting upset over. Vectes might have been a small island but that didn't mean she ever had to speak to the obnoxious bastard ever again.


	2. Denial

It had been one hell of a day.

Sam hadn't kidded herself into thinking that things would get easier after Prescott had welcomed the Gorasni refugees to Vectes, despite the extra manpower the alliance supplied. The COG civvies on Vectes had been basically living under a rock for the last fifteen years. They'd missed E-Day, and as a result they still held old grudges. Sam allowed that she herself had only served in the Pendulum Wars for one year before it ended, and most of the fighting had died down by that point, but Dom and Marcus still didn't treat the Gorasni with any extra revulsion. The civvies from the Pelruan, though… They hadn't had fifteen years of fighting monsters to douse the raging fires of vengeance in their bones.

But it wasn't keeping both groups from killing each other that had worn Sam out. And it wasn't even the constant threat of Stranded attacks that kept the Gears up at night. It was the unknown—something was out there, and they had absolutely no fucking clue what it was.

In the dark of her bunk, that _something_ kept Sam from falling asleep.

Earlier that day, she'd been out with Dom and Baird on the _Amirale Enka_ , escorting trawlers. She'd thought the worst she'd have to deal with would be leering glances from the Gorasni soldiers and snide remarks from Baird, but she'd been wrong. That stuff she could handle. _Levanto_ exploding mysteriously, without any explanation, was something else entirely.

It had shaken everyone. Either there was something underwater that had caused the explosion, or the Stranded were much more powerful than they had initially assumed. Neither of those options sat well with Sam.

She groaned and let herself fall backwards onto her cot. Maybe lying on her back would coax her body into sleep. Her thoughts turned to a more pleasant topic: the man that made her heart flutter and a flush creep onto her cheeks whenever she was near him. She'd been on the _Amirale Enka_ with him earlier, and before the terror-inducing explosion it had been sweet torture. However, Sam wasn't convinced that her feelings for him weren't ill-advised; she knew his history, what had happened to his family—both ten years ago and in the agonizingly recent past. But a man had to move on eventually; Drew Rossi was proof of that. And Sam was hoping that Dom would let her be there for him, to help him heal and show him that there could be life after Maria.

An image of Baird's mocking smile popped unbidden into her mind's eye. Sam squeezed her eyes shut, as if that could somehow banish the vision. Horrifyingly, she felt her heartbeat pick up and that familiar tightness in the centre of her chest.

_No. No, no, no, no fucking way._

She most certainly did _not_ have feelings for that asshole. She'd nearly sucker punched him after he'd made that crack about her being on the patrol boat to swab the decks. He was selfish, sexist, arrogant, and _far_ too sarcastic for his own good. She was still kicking herself for trying to buy him a drink. Oh, how that had blown up in her face. And yet, she couldn't shake the image of his stupid, smug face from her mind.

Sam knew it was a bad idea to let her mind wander to thoughts of Damon Baird, but that didn't stop her traitorous brain from fixating on him. It was stupid; she was being stupid because she _knew better_. Baird had made his feelings about her perfectly clear that night in the mess.

Heaving a sigh, Sam rolled over onto her side to face the wall. It was going to be a long night.


	3. Outside

Unlike Rory Andresen, Borusc Eugen's death did not have a universal effect. When Sergeant Andresen had been killed during the Stranded Insurgency, it had left the majority of his fellow Gears devastated. He was a good man, easy to get along with, and happily married. It had been a tragedy. The night after he'd died, the atmosphere in the main mess had been heavy with sorrow, quiet with mourning.

Tonight was a very different night in the mess. The room was filled with the dull chatter of idle conversation and the occasional outburst of laughter that made Sam jump. She sat at a table in the corner, alone and nursing a pint that she'd bought nearly an hour ago. It wasn't even half-empty; she didn't really feel like drinking tonight.

Another soldier had died in a horrifying manner. He had been a good man as well, friendly, and married. There wasn't much difference between Andresen and Eugen, except for their race: one was Tyran, the other Gorasni. And despite the fact that the Gorasni were continuing to work the imulsion fields with full knowledge of the obvious danger to their lives, there were a lot of people who still didn't think twice about throwing the term "Indie" around.

Sam had barely fought in the Pendulum Wars, so she would never be able to understand the deep hatred that still festered in the hearts of older Gears. To her, Eugen had just been a guy with an accent. He'd been nice to her. And now he was dead, and no one seemed to care.

A group of Gears a few tables away from her were having a very loud, drunken conversation. Yet another obnoxious eruption of laughter from the table had Sam clutching her glass so hard that her knuckles turned white. She couldn't stay here another minute longer; the beer would just have to go to waste. Pushing her chair away from her table, she pointedly ignored the looks people were giving her and walked briskly to the door. Maybe she could find Cole. Dom, who had lost his brother and too many friends to the _Indies_ , would not be a good person to talk to about this whole situation.

She pushed open the door and stepped into the cool, quiet evening air. Cole hadn't been in the mess, so that meant he was somewhere with Baird. If she could find Baird, then she could find—

"Shit!"

The voice nearly made Sam jump out of her skin. She stopped just short of slamming into Baird, who happened to be rounding the corner at the same time she was. They both quickly backed up a few paces. Baird's embarrassed expression probably mirrored her own.

She hated running into him like this. It was unexpected; she didn't have time to mentally prepare herself for the snide comments and the scathing looks. But as her eyes adjusted to the moonlight, she saw that Baird didn't look like his regular arrogant self. And then she realised that he was probably more broken up about Eugen's death than she was.

"I heard what happened," she said. "I'm sorry."

Baird sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck. "Who told you?" He didn't sound annoyed, just tired.

"Anya, Alex and I were with Bernie when you radioed her. She filled us in."

Sam knew it was bad then, because Baird didn't even wrinkle his nose in disgust at the mention of Alex Brand.

"It was my fault."

"Baird, you can't—"

"Blame myself?" He cut her off with a humourless laugh. "Everybody keeps saying that, but I _know_. I was there. I should have killed that fucking bull before it got anywhere near him."

An awkward silence hung between them. Sam had no idea what else to say. It was true: she hadn't been there to see it happen, so no matter what she said, Baird wouldn't believe her. He would continue to blame himself, despite the fact that others had been there besides him and Eugen. Stefan Gradin and Cole were out in that field too, along with a handful of Gorasni working the imulsion pumps. Sam found it mildly surprising that Baird would so easily accept full responsibility of Eugen's death. That wasn't at all like the Baird—the cocky, emotionless bastard—she thought she knew.

"It should have been me."

His voice was so quiet that Sam almost didn't register that he'd said anything. Her gaze snapped back to him as she processed what he said, confused and somewhat alarmed. His head was hung, he wasn't looking anywhere near her, his arm was wrapped around his body like he was trying to hold himself together… He looked devastated.

"What?" she asked finally, because she couldn't believe what she'd heard.

"Better me than someone with a wife."

"No! No, don't—" Before she knew what she was doing, she took a step forward and placed her hand on Baird's arm. "Don't say that."

He didn't flinch away like she'd expected; that's what Dom would have done. Instead he stared down at his arm, at her hand. "Funny, coming from you."

"Beg pardon?"

"You're trying to make me feel better." A shame-tainted smirk crept on to his face. "I know I'm not exactly your favourite person ever. So it's… funny."

She scoffed. "So I'm supposed to get some sick sort of pleasure from seeing you beat yourself up over this?"

He shrugged. "Don't know. Just didn't expect this from you, is all."

Sam bristled and was tempted to snap at him, but she took a calming breath and swallowed the callous remark that was on its way out. "Eugen was a good guy. It's awful that he's dead, but not a lot of people seem to care."

Baird nodded slowly. "It wasn't our war. I had a Gorasni in my first squad and I didn't care where he was from or how he talked. Didn't stop the higher-ups from treating him like shit, despite the fact he was putting his life on the line fighting alongside Tyrans."

"And here I thought we'd all be holding hands and singing Kumbaya when we weren't busy fighting the glowies."

She grinned, and Baird's lips twitched slightly. This was the longest conversation they'd had without sniping at each other. Then she realised that she was still touching his arm. Her face flooded with colour and she jerked her hand away, hoping the dark would hide her flushed cheeks from Baird. Trying to play if off as nothing, she adopted a casual tone. "Are you going to be okay?"

"You know me. I'm a total bastard." Baird smiled wryly at her and began to back away into the night. "I'll recover in no time."

But the smile didn't reach his eyes.


	4. Restless

This could have passed for a luxury vacation in another life. Baird stood on the deck of the ship, enjoying the warm ocean breeze and staring at a sunset that was almost too perfect. But this wasn't a cruise ship; it was _CNV_ _Sovereign_ , a Raven's Nest, now serving as a mobile base for the remnant of the COG army. And Baird wouldn't be up on deck at all if it wasn't for his friend.

Beside him, Cole shuddered and made another retching sound. He was leaning over the railing, throwing up his last meal. It made Baird thankful that he wasn't plagued with motion sickness. Michaelson kept optimistically insisting that Cole would get his sea legs soon enough; it'd only been about a week since they've been stationed on _Sovereign_. It would take time to adjust.

There were a few other Gears up on deck, but not so many that Baird felt crowded. The sun was going down and they never knew when they'd be deployed next; people tended to head for their bunks to get some shuteye whenever they had a moment of downtime. Then two familiar faces jumped out at Baird from across the deck: Sam and Dom walked slowly into his line of sight. Baird couldn't help but roll his eyes. Ever since they'd left Vectes, Sam's advances towards Dom had been getting less and less subtle. It rankled Baird.

The two of them stopped walking. They seemed to be having an intense conversation. Baird didn't have to try very hard to imagine what they're talking about. They didn't notice him or Cole. Baird watched them, because what the hell else was he going to do? Besides, if they wanted privacy they should have picked a better spot.

Sam reached towards Dom, but he flinched away. Baird's face twisted into a grimace as he watched the pathetic display unfold in front of him. He didn't pretend to have a strong grasp of relationships and emotions, but he knew a lost cause when he saw one. Dom was too broken. The man had spent a decade looking for his wife—the woman he married at fifteen and fathered two children with—and that ended with him putting a bullet in her head. People didn't just get over shit like that, especially not in a couple months.

Infuriatingly, everybody else _wanted_ them to get together. Marcus, Bernie, Dizzy, Cole—all people who should know better. But apparently Baird was the only one who could see how badly this would end. While he understood that people wanted little moments of pleasure in the daily hell they had to face, this was just utter stupidity. It wouldn't end well for anybody.

The whole thing was just so ludicrous. Couldn't Sam see that? Dom wasn't ready to move on yet. He'd probably _never_ be ready. But she naively pursued him, completely oblivious to what Baird found so glaringly apparent. She was just setting herself up for heartbreak. She shouldn't be chasing after Dom; it was a wasted effort. She shouldn't be going after someone who would only ever see her as a replacement. Baird wasn't saying that Dom was a bad guy; he'd just never be able to move past the ghost of his wife. If Sam wanted a guy, there were plenty of other options. As much as Baird hated to admit it, Sam was a decently nice person, and everyone deserved some amount of happiness in life. There were other men out there for Sam.

_There's me._

Baird tensed up, slamming the breaks on that train of thought. He didn't want Sam; he didn't want Sam _at all_. Everyone on the ship had heard him bitch about being assigned to the same squad as her. Sure, she was hot, but so what? She was a bitch. All leather, tattoos and mouth. They didn't get along at the best of times. He was sure she has come close to punching him out on more than one occasion.

No, he was just being an idiot. He couldn't control what his brain thought. That idea was just a product of hormones. Sam was a nice-looking woman, and it had been far longer than he'd like to admit. There was nothing substantial behind it. Nothing at all. It would never work out. It would never even get off the ground; Sam clearly had her hopes pinned on someone else.

Dom made a gesture, and he and Sam walked away. Baird frowned, watched them go, and then turned back to his seasick friend. Cole groaned and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked up at Baird and furrowed his brow.

"What's eating you?" Cole asked.

How could he be so perceptive when he'd just been puking his guts out? Baird shrugged. "Just tired."

Baird could see that Cole didn't buy it, but he knew better than to press when Baird didn't want to talk. "Well, I think my stomach's pretty much empty. Let's go see if anyone's up for some poker in the mess."

Baird nodded and followed Cole back down into the ship. He wasn't particularly fond of cards, but he had a great poker face.


	5. Thanks

They stumbled onto shore, coughing and gasping. As soon as they were out of the water, their legs all seemed to give out collectively. Cole, Sam and Carmine collapsed onto their knees, while Baird fell on his side and rolled onto his back. He couldn't believe they'd survived _another_ frigging Lambent Leviathan. He was getting really sick of those bastards. And coming up with ways to kill them. Dropping a bunch of Tickers on its head definitely deserved points for originality. Destroying Centennial Bridge and nearly drowning them, though, had not been part of his plan.

Carmine pushed himself up onto his knees, turning his helmet towards Baird. "I think you got it, Baird," he said wearily.

Baird almost grinned, but he was still a little tired after the bridge collapse and the swim to shore. "Hey, we walked away in one piece." He glanced at Cole, just to make sure that was the case. "That's what counts, right?"

Even Cole's superhuman enthusiasm appeared dimmed by the experience. "Yeah, firing all pistons, baby…" He got to his feet and pressed a finger to the tac-com in his ear. "Marcus, you okay? Dom? Speak to me! Where are y'all?"

There was no response; Baird tired to ignore the way his stomach tightened. _Sovereign_ had just begun to sink, violently and unexpectedly. It was understandable that maybe Marcus and Dom had lost their tac-coms in the chaos. The lack of answer didn't necessarily indicate that anything bad had happened to them.

Suddenly Carmine jerked his head away from the wreck of Centennial Bridge. "Look sharp, people! That's not search-and-rescue!"

Baird looked in the direction that Carmine was pointing and was simultaneously shocked and unsurprised to see a Brumak heading in the direction of _Sovereign_. He was startled because the hulking mass of a Brumak always knocked the wind out of him, but not really surprised because wasn't that just their luck? They couldn't _just_ deal with getting the survivors of the shipwreck to shore; they had a Brumak to contend with as well. Of frigging course.

"Come on, we gotta haul ass!" Cole was already signalling the squad to get moving; if it was any private other than Cole, Baird would have taken offence that his authority as corporal was being usurped. "We gotta get to the ship before that freak parade does!"

 

* * *

 

Running through washed-up debris from both _Sovereign_ and Centennial Bridge while looking for their missing weapons had been challenging, but Baird was now back in possession of his Lancer and shotgun at least. It looked like they were nearing the main wreckage site of the Raven's Nest, judging by the changing rubbish on the beach.

Cole slowed to a halt, turning to stare at the haunting sight of the sinking _Sovereign_. "Poor ol' lady. Not looking too good."

Baird could tell easily enough what his friend was thinking; _CNV_ _Sovereign_ had been their base of operations, their home, for months now. To see it blown to hell and slowly submerging wasn't pleasant—and it was even less pleasant to wonder who would be making it off the ship alive. Michaelson, Hayman, Mathieson, Marcus, Dom, Anya and Jace… Baird was suddenly very glad his squad had been sent to deal with Hanover's Stranded. He didn't have to worry about Cole, Sam or Clay getting stuck trying to evacuate.

"Looks like we found 'em!"

Cole's shout tore Baird away from his depressing thoughts. He looked over to see Cole and Carmine racing towards a face-down figure in the shallows; from the do-rag, it was obviously Marcus. Sam was making a beeline for another man—it had to be Dom. Baird rushed over to help her, pointedly ignoring how his heart lurched. He told himself that he was just worried about Dom's condition: he wasn't moving.

Baird and Sam flipped Dom onto his front. His eyes were closed, face muscles slack—Baird couldn't tell if he was breathing under the massive chest piece. _Come on, Dom._ He could hear Cole talking to Marcus, "Cough it up, baby."

Somewhere near him, there was hacking and spluttering as Marcus came to. "Dom! Is he okay?"

Baird hated questions he couldn't answer, and that was one of them. Dom looked unconscious… or worse. Baird snuck a glance at Sam's face and his stomach dropped. Her expression was one of frantic desperation; he didn't want to see how her features would change if it was too late for Dom.

"Come on, Santiago," she pleaded, "breathe!"

Just when Baird thought that was it, that Dom was really gone, Dom's eyes popped open and he was retching up water from his lungs. "Damn it! Oh, god!"

Sam's whole body visibly relaxed; her face broke out in a warm smile. "He is now." Baird wouldn't let himself wish that she'd look at him like that. But then Baird noticed that she _was_ looking at him—not the way that Baird would stop himself short of fantasizing about, but with softer eyes than he normally saw from her. "Thank you." Her voice was barely above a whisper. Baird's mouth went dry; he thought about trying to say something… but every time he opened his mouth he just made things worse with her.

And then Marcus and Dom were getting to their feet and the moment was gone. Marcus was already jamming a finger in his ear. Back to business as usual. "Anya? Jace? Respond, over… Come on, dammit, answer me!"

Baird's earpiece crackled with Anya's reply. _"Marcus? I'm with Jace, near the ship. I need some help with Prescott, or he's not going to make it."_

The dull ache in Baird's chest was immediately replaced with interest. Cole picked up on the ex-Chairman's name being mentioned as well. "I heard Prescott. Tell me that's just my old head injury."

"Prescott?" Baird couldn't help but ask.

Marcus rounded on them, looking less than impressed. Nearly blowing up and then drowning would do that to a person. "What, do we got an echo here or something? Yeah, Prescott's back, Michaelson's dead, and my father's alive. Film at eleven."

Baird only just stopped his mouth from falling open. Adam Fenix was _alive_? No wonder Marcus was tenser than usual. _I leave for a few hours and all the interesting shit happens._

Before there was time for more questions, Marcus was talking to his tac-com again. "Anya, we're coming to get you."

" _There's a lot more wounded coming ashore, too, Marcus."_ Anya sounded harried; that couldn't be good for Marcus's blood pressure. _"We need someone to help out at the lifeboats. They're beached just north of the ship."_

"You got it," Marcus said. "Sam and Carmine are on their way."

Stupidly, disappointment flared up in Baird's chest. But before he could reflect on the alarming reasons behind his desire for Sam to stay, something popped out of the ground a few feet in front of Delta and exploded. Off in the distance, he could hear the deep, ominous chuckle of a Boomer.

_Great,_ he groaned inwardly. This frigging day just kept getting better and better.


	6. Flame

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Karen Traviss, for giving me an idea of how the Hammer of Dawn works. In Traviss We Trust.

Baird's heart had barely begun beating at a normal pace again after fending off an army of Boomers in Anvil Gate's garage (and then torching the hell out of them) before he'd been forced into another panic-inducing situation.

Well, maybe _forced_ wasn't quite the word. He'd volunteered. Technically. But what the hell else was he supposed to do? An army of grubs was bearing down on Anvil Gate, and the fort didn't have nearly enough manpower to defend against them. So it was either fix the Hammer of Dawn, or get overrun by the Locust horde.

Normally Baird would have jumped at the chance to tinker with the Hammer again. The concept of the weapon absolutely fascinated him: an orbital satellite-based laser capable of ridiculous levels of destruction. Granted, the Hammer had also burned ninety percent of Sera's surface and killed millions of people in his lifetime, but that had been a human decision. To amend a popular phrase: orbital lasers don't kill people, people kill people.

Unfortunately for Baird, it seemed that every time he got his hands on the Hammer, his friends' lives hung in the balance. Back on Vectes it had been the three Lambent Leviathans, and he'd obliterated a third of New Jacinto in the process of taking down one. Not his finest moment. But the Hammer's satellites had been finicky at best ever since the sinking of Jacinto. Firing the damn thing on Vectes had been hard enough, and now he had to do it again—with even fewer satellites working. Accuracy was completely out the window, as Hoffman had said.

But now Sam and Anya were pinned down outside the main gate. Marcus, Dom, Cole and Bernie had gone out to help them. They were all depending on Baird and it made him sweat, knowing that everybody he gave a shit about could be completely annihilated if he didn't deploy the Hammer correctly.

" _Baird, we're being overrun with Lambent! Bring the Hammer online!"_

Marcus's gruff shout over the tac-com in Baird's ear snapped him back to reality. "Okay, but you'd better get in here! We don't have full control!"

" _Just fire it up!"_

_Fire it up, he says. Like it's that easy. Just push a button and a giant laser from space will magically kill the horde of grubs and the mutated freak show that came knocking on our door. Sure, no problem, boss._

If Baird thought manual target correction had been a bitch on Vectes, boy was this something else. Yeah, every so often a satellite's reference times would drift out of sync, but it had been one at a time. It was damn near impossible to keep the few functioning satellites in sync on the failing network—No, _failing_ was giving it too much credit. The network was basically dead. It was taking a great deal of Baird's considerable skill to keep the Hammer satellites pointing in the general vicinity of Anvil Gate. If he slipped up for a second, he could very well end up firing the damn thing at Pesang.

 _This would be a hell of a lot easier if Marcus had the targeting laser,_ Baird thought wistfully. Then he wouldn't have to worry about miscalculating by a mere decimal point and scorching his friends in one second flat. In the end, _he_ was the one flipping the switch. It was on _him_ if the Hammer misfired or missed—and if the Hammer didn't hit its target precisely, well…

_Cole's out there. And Marcus and Dom, Anya and Bernie. And Sam._

He _couldn't_ miss. There was too much at stake, and he didn't mean what was rapidly becoming humanity's last push in the Locust/Lambent war. Because if his friends didn't make it out of this, did he really give a damn if they ended up wiping the grubs and glowies off the face of Sera?

" _Baird, where's the damn Hammer?"_

It was now or never. And if he waited, his friends _would_ die. The numbers looked right. There was nothing else he could do. He hit the control. "The firing sequence has started! Hurry!"

 _You guys better move your asses, or I swear…_ They'd get out of there. They _had_ to get out of there.

The numbers cascaded down the control display. Funny how those numbers somehow turned into a death beam from the sky. Baird pressed his finger to his tac-com. "It's firing… Now!"

Just like on Vectes, he spun around to look out the window. This blast wouldn't be nearly as powerful—no Lambent Leviathan to blow up, and most of the satellites were down. But it was still a sight to behold. The abnormally straight orange beams that appeared out of the sky and converged on a single, fixed point. He knew as soon as the laser reached the exact co-ordinates, because the ground began to shake with such force that he had to grab the edge of a desk to steady himself. The booming sound came seconds later, but it wasn't as loud as he remembered. Or maybe firing the Hammer on Vectes just seemed more intense in retrospect, because the Leviathan exploding had knocked him flat on his ass.

And then it was over. The absence of the Hammer's chaos left an eerie stillness in the air. Baird's gut clenched up as he waited. He'd managed not to hit the fort, but what about his friends who were right in the line of fire? Did they make it inside? Or had they…

Before he had the chance to panic too much, his tac-com crackled. _"Nice shot, baby!"_

Baird let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Told you guys I could fix it." It didn't sound as cocky and self-assured as he would have liked; his voice shook slightly as the giddy relief flooded through him. "Everyone okay?"

" _Well,"_ Cole sounded out of breath. _"The Hammer didn't kill us, but this bitch might. Better get down here. There's a Lambent Berserker in the yard."_

And with that, Cole cut the connection. Baird stood frozen for a couple seconds. He hadn't killed his friends. So that was good. But a Lambent Berserker? Shit, those things were nasty enough when they weren't juiced up and liable to detonation. _Just our frigging luck._

As Baird raced towards impending death, he tried to focus on the bright side. His friends were alive (for the moment). Everyone made it past the Hammer. Cole was okay. Sam was okay. That knowledge brought him more pleasure than it should. And, as stupid and crazy as it was, he didn't mind so much that he was charging into battle with a Lambent Berserker, because it meant that he would get to see her— _them_ , and reassure himself of the fact that they were okay.

Until the glowie bitch stomped on them, anyway.


	7. Promise

"Dom… Dom didn't make it."

For a split-second, Baird thought he misheard Marcus. Dom, dead? Impossible. But as Baird watched Marcus, he saw the sergeant's face crumple and the complete and utter agony in his expression, and then the unbearable truth of that sentence hit Baird square in the gut.

He had to turn away. "Oh, fuck, no…"

Beside him, Cole tipped his head back, trying to process. Then he exploded with rage. "Somebody's gonna pay. Somebody's gonna _fucking pay_."

Marcus was showing remarkable composure, but that wasn't anything new for the stoic sergeant. He was back in Soldier Mode now, pushing the pain away to deal with later. Years of practice made him an expert; Baird was still learning. It had been easy to act like he didn't care when nothing bothered him, but over the past couple months the walls had come down. And while his newfound allowance of feelings opened him up for deeper relationships, it also left him vulnerable to heartache.

"He got us this far," Marcus said, all business now. "Let's finish it. Sam, Jace—get back to the ship at help 'em out. They need intel on where to land the troops."

Jace didn't take that order well. "But Marcus… you need us here, with you. We—"

But Marcus wasn't open to suggestions. "It's not negotiable, people—ship out."

Baird was still reeling from the shock, but this sent him into emotional upheaval. For some idiotic reason, he thought of Garron Paduk, whom he had seen only hours earlier. Seeing him again after so long had been jarring. Not just running into a familiar face without any warning, but noticing just how much Paduk had changed in the last sixteen years. He'd never been the happiest guy during their brief days in Kilo Squad, but the present-day Paduk was so jaded and bitter. Losing Sofia to the COG had destroyed him.

Baird couldn't fathom what it must have been like for Paduk, watching as someone he cared about was taken away and being unable to do anything about it. Beside Baird, Jace and Sam started to walk away; the movement in his peripherals jolted him back to reality. A sudden panic flared up inside him. Jumbled thoughts of Sofia and Paduk clouded his faculties and before he knew what he was doing he had started towards Sam.

"Hey, uh… Sam."

She stopped and turned towards him. The coward inside Baird warned him to back off. But he pushed that impulse down as he thought of Paduk, angry and broken and _aching_ from all the things he'd never said to Sofia.

"Take care of yourself, okay?"

Sam blinked at him in surprise, her eyebrows furrowing slightly. Baird half-expected her to just ignore him and follow Jace, who was trudging crossly down to the beach, oblivious. But then she smiled at him—a small, somewhat confused smile—and he did everything he could not to flush.

"Yeah…" she said quietly. "You too, Baird."

And then she was gone, jogging to catch up to Jace. Baird couldn't help the grin that tugged at his mouth. It hadn't been what he'd wanted to say, but that was about as good as it was going to get without prior planning.

Baird turned back to Cole, Marcus and Anya. Marcus seemed to be eyeing him suspiciously; his stern gaze made Baird's insides churn but he didn't react in any way the sergeant would notice.

"Okay," Marcus said, "we're heading for the main tower. This is where it ends. One way, or another."

As the remnant of Delta Squad headed for the main building, Baird got the feeling that this really was it. He was on the precipice of change; the next few hours were going to be the most important in his entire life. If they somehow managed to survive the last-ditch attack that Myrrah was undoubtedly planning, things were going to be a hell of a lot different afterwards.

And Baird didn't just mean living in a world without monsters.


	8. Sunset

_He's gone. He's really gone._

It was finally starting to hit Sam. Now that the desperate fight for her life – for the lives of every human being on Sera – was over, she had time to stop, take a breath, and process what had happened in Mercy only hours earlier.

Dom was dead. It didn't feel real, but she knew it was. She'd seen the explosion with her own eyes, seen the mangled, smouldering wreckage of the tanker he'd jumped in, felt the heat of the fire on her skin. Some part of her brain was trying to work out a way Dom could have survived his suicidal drive, but the rational part of her knew it to be impossible. He'd taken out so many Lambent and Locust with the blast – enough to give Delta Squad their lives – there was no way he would have been able to walk away from it.

Tears welled up in her eyes, blurring her vision of the setting sun over the ocean. Dom had given his life so she could be standing here, staring at the beautiful scene before her. They could have all easily died in Mercy, and wasn't it just like Dom Santiago to put the safety of his friends above everything else? She was alive because Dom was dead.

She felt relieved, horrified, guilty, anguished. All the emotional turmoil that should have overwhelmed her in the moments after Dom's sacrifice had been pushed aside. They'd still had a submarine to fix and fuel, a secret island to find, a planet to save. There hadn't been time to absorb and deal with what had happened at the time. Now, however, she had all the time in the world.

Wiping the tears away with the back of her hand, Sam turned her gaze towards her fellow Gears. Marcus and Anya were off by themselves, out on the beach. She couldn't even imagine what Marcus was going through; losing his father and his childhood best friend within only a few hours… That would leave a wound that would take a long time to heal. The others were giving the couple a respectful berth. Jace, Dizzy, Cole, Carmine and Baird were all lined up by the railing of the hotel's balcony, looking out over the sand and water. She could go and stand by any one of them. Dizzy would probably be worrying about his girls back at Anvil Gate. Carmine had survived yet another brush with death after his brief encounter with Myrrah's Tempest. She had just been with Jace, helping the Gorasni come ashore. Cole always had a smile for her, and would probably be the easiest to talk to about Dom. And yet, Sam found her feet carrying her towards the man standing just a little bit apart from the others—Baird.

" _Take care of yourself, okay?"_

Those few words had completely thrown her off. As had the way he seemed to have a hard time looking at her as he spoke. It was so odd, such a change from their normal interactions. The previous few days had been business as usual: firing sarcastic comments back and forth with the same precision that they fired bullets. Joking banter, thinly-veiled insults, the occasional barb that went just a _bit_ too deep. Sam hadn't thought anything of it. But now that she thought back, maybe there had been a few abnormalities.

In Hanover, her crack about them living together with a house and a fence had given him pause—just for a moment, but it was still unusual. When Carmine had joked about grabbing a beer together, Baird's comment about Dom had been just a touch more acidic than usual. And on Centennial Bridge, after she'd stopped him from falling, his mock confession of love had sent her heart rate skyrocketing; she'd attributed it to the adrenaline rush of surviving a collapsing bridge.

She sidled up beside Baird, keeping a short distance between them. He noticed her right away; she could tell from the way he tensed up and stared _very deliberately_ right ahead. Then, when he seemed to collect himself, he turned and gave her a sheepish smile. It was the same smile he'd given her when she'd responded "Yeah, you too, Baird."

Maybe she was reading too much into it, making mountains out of mole hills. Or maybe the signs had been there all along, and she'd just been too hung up on Dom to notice.

_Dom. Shit._

It was going to hurt for a long time; she knew that from past experience. But Sam had been able to move on—from the death of her mother, from the loss of more friends than she cared to count. But she could move on—and it gave her the tiniest bit of hope that there might be someone to move on to.


	9. Tremble

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So back when this was originally posted out of order, I had this system to clue people in to whereabouts in the timeline a particular chapter took place. Stuff that happened before and during Gears 3 was written past tense, and everything that happens after Gears 3 was in present tense. Hence, the tense shift that happens in this chapter and every single one after.
> 
> Also, everything from here onwards takes place after Desperate Measures. You don't need to read it to understand anything, just know that we're at Anvil Gate now.

* * *

 

It's easy to forget that while most of his fellow Gears are plagued by nightmares, he isn't.

He's drifting in and out of sleep, fighting the urge to completely spread out on the bed (he's not used to sharing yet). Sam twitches next to him; he assumes she's just dreaming and thinks nothing off it, until she starts violently. Her spasm takes him by surprise and he can't help but jump in return. Instantly, she goes rigid, aware that he was conscious for her jolt from sleep.

They lie there in awkward silence for a few seconds. Baird knows that he's supposed to ask what happened, but he really doesn't want to; he doesn't know how. But he doesn't want Sam to think he's being a colossal jerk and ignoring her either, so he forces himself to croak, "What the hell was that?"

"Nothing," she answers, her voice muffled. She has her back to him; her face must be buried in her pillow. A beat later she adds, "Just a bad dream."

Despite her stifled voice, he can clearly detect a hint of fear. "Must have been one hell of a dream," he mutters. When she doesn't respond, he debates trying to go back to sleep. But something gnaws at him in his gut, and he knows that isn't really an option.

"Do you… want to talk about it?" he asks lamely.

She's silent for a while, but he can tell she hasn't gone back to sleep; she's too tense, and her breathing isn't right. Finally, without turning to face him, she says, "It's… hard to explain. I just… it's a _feeling_ , really. I'm in the Hollow, but my squad's gone—dead—and I know that there's something out there, watching. And it's just waiting and…"

Baird has never liked being in situations he can't understand. This is one of those occasions where he's blundering in the dark (no pun intended). He doesn't get nightmares, even if he has good reason to; he's been taken prisoner by the Locust and lived to tell the tale, and he's seen plenty of fucked up shit in his time. Sure, there's the occasional unpleasant dream, but it never really messes him up. He _knows_ it's a dream, just something his brain dredged up. If he dwells on it, he's lost.

But here's Sam, so clearly distressed by some vague, fleeting images during sleep. He has to do something—so he goes with the first thing that pops into his head.

He rolls onto his side so her back is up against his chest. As he moves to put his arms around her, she turns to look at him.

"What are you doing?" she asks.

He can't blame her for being confused. Hell, he doesn't really know what he's doing himself. It feels right, but he still feels almost embarrassed. Physical intimacy that isn't sex is still brand new territory.

"I need a different position anyway," he says. "Just relax, will you?"

She gives him a bemused look, but doesn't push him away. Tentatively, he wraps his arms around her, drawing her close to his body. He hopes she can't feel his heart pounding stupidly fast in his chest. She remains tensed for a while and he can tell that she's very deliberately keeping her body as still as possible. But as the minutes tick by, it gradually becomes less and less awkward. They both relax, little by little, until Baird finds himself struggling to keep his eyes open.

Sam's breathing slows and deepens. A quiet snuffle lets him know that she's drifted back to sleep, and he allows himself to settle down. He can feel his consciousness ebbing away with each breath; he nestles into his bed, finding the most comfortable position, and pulling Sam just a fraction closer.


	10. Accusation

It's not often that they fight— _really_ fight.

The good-natured bickering is just part of their relationship. Only rarely does it escalate to something truly vicious. When this happens, there is no screaming. In fact it's the opposite: their voices get low and quiet. Hissing at each other instead of shouting. And the game begins.

It's a delicate game, with unspoken rules. They take it in turns, each saying something cruel, something designed to wound, but not something that crosses an invisible line they've established. Whoever can get closest to that line without going over it wins.

If words really could wound, their bodies would be covered in scars.

He doesn't remember what initially sparked this argument. Probably something stupid— that always seems to be the case. Whatever it was, the spat quickly got out of hand. Stress from the week, general moodiness, the fact that they're both stubborn and headstrong—all these fuel the fire. The rational part of him wants to stop. It's stupid, not worth it. He's not really mad at her; she's just become the target for all his frustrations. His sacrifice block, as she once called him. But it's too late. He can't back down now. As horrible as it is, some part of him wants to win.

She accuses him of being heartless. That cuts deep—worse than he expected. It hurts because it comes from _her_ , the person who should know better than anyone else just how untrue that statement is. _Heartless._ A lie, a viscous distortion of reality. She knows it's a lie too.

And that should be the end of it. They should huff and storm off to cool down, and then awkwardly slink back and apologize. That's how it should go.

But instead, something else.

There's something he can say. Something that has remained buried in his heart, for a long time now. He once promised himself that he would never say it, but now, in the heat of the moment, it just comes rushing out.

"Heartless? At least that's better than _you_." His voice is acid. "You spent all those months trailing after Dom, wearing your heart on your sleeve. You throwing yourself at him—it was so fucking _pathetic_."

It's like he physically attacked her. The air rushes out of her in one breath. She looks deflated, defeated, stunned. He crossed the line. An apology is forming in his mind when she stomps towards him. He expects a slap or a scream, but this is Sam.

She punches him in the face.

As stars explode in his vision and his head swims, he hears her voice in his ear, quiet and cold. "How could you?"

And then she's gone, the door slamming behind her.

He stands in the middle of the room, appalled. What the hell had he been _thinking_? That was downright malicious, even by his standards. She doesn't deserve that, least of all from him. He knows Dom is a sore spot; he'll _always_ be a wound, one that will open up and bleed again at the slightest scratch.

It was a betrayal to drag Dom's name into this.

Maybe he really is heartless.

 

* * *

 

After what he imagines to be an appropriate amount of time, he tiptoes ashamedly to her quarters. He can't blame her for not seeking him out for an admission of remorse. Had the positions been reversed, he wonders if he could forgive her so easily. But he is petty and proud; she is understanding and reasonable.

He slowly opens the door to her room. Peering inside, he sees her sitting on the bed, her back to him. Her shoulders shake with silent sobs, but the movement stops when she hears him enter. Shame washes over him. He's never hurt her this badly before.

As he nears her rigid form, he extends one arm awkwardly. He stands behind her and places a hand on her shoulder in a gesture of peace and culpability. She immediately stiffens at the unwanted touch.

" _Don't._ "

It's a slap to the face. He flinches away. Her tone softens slightly. "Just… don't. I can't be around you right now."

"Okay," he murmurs, and leaves.

 

* * *

 

Later that night, as he lays in bed alone, he lets the guilt eat away at him. He is a coward, and selfish for expecting her to forgive him on the spot. He half-expects the door to creak open, for her to come slide under the covers while he utters whispered apologies. But she won't come. Not tonight.

They will both spend tonight in their own quarters, mulling over the implications of what he said. There's still resentment and jealousy deep down inside him, and now he knows it can bubble up and spill over at a moment's notice. Ignoring it won't work any longer, but he doesn't know what else he can do.

In the morning he will apologize profusely. He resolves to go out of his way to be agreeable and pleasant, to never upset her in such a way again. But this is a lie. Another fight will happen; more merciless words will be flung across the room. He'll hurt her again.

He never deluded himself into thinking this would be easy.

But he never imagined it could be this hard.


	11. Formal

Part of Baird thinks this whole ceremony is a stupid, pointless waste of time. For one thing, he's still not sure if the COG is officially back together or not. They still don't have a Chairman (not that anybody particularly wants the job after Prescott dragged its name through the mud), nor is there a Council of Sovereigns around to elect a Chairman if anyone _was_ idiotic enough to put their name forward as a candidate. Hoffman is the closest thing to a head of government that they have right now, but somehow Baird doesn't imagine that the (former?) Chief of Defense Staff will be chomping at the bit to sit in the leader's chair.

And yet, despite all the technical bullshit running through Baird's brain, another part of him can't help but think that it's about damn time.

The ceremony is pretty frigging symbolic, and not just because it's honouring the soldiers who basically saved all of humanity and restored peace to Sera (for now, anyway). The medals being presented are the first ones to be produced since the end of the Locust War. And just to pile on the significance, it will be the first time ever that a person has received an Embry Star more than once. It would have been two people, but one medal has to be awarded posthumously to Sergeant Dominic Santiago, promoted after his death. Like that somehow means something.

That makes Marcus Fenix, now Sergeant Major, the only living person to have two Embry Stars. Figures that Marcus would yet again outshine Baird's own personal achievement. He's not bitter or jealous or anything, he's just making an observation.

Everyone in Delta Squad is going to be awarded the Embry Star, for going beyond the call of duty and distinguishing themselves with gallantry and valour and all that. And promotions come along with the medals. Again, not that that means anything, considering Baird's not even sure if he's still in the army. He probably is, but someone should really make it official.

Baird stands on the stage in front of way too many people, trying his best not to look uncomfortable in a parade uniform that doesn't quite fit. It isn't his; Cole scrounged it up somewhere, along with the one he's currently wearing to Baird's left. Those lucky enough not to have found dress uniforms, like Jace, have opted for the standard COG armour. Baird feels like a prize idiot in his ridiculous garb, next to Dizzy and Carmine's graffitied kit.

Sam and Anya have somehow managed to avoid either armour or ill-fitting parade uniforms. No, they both have dresses on—which is not helping Baird's concentration _at all_. He isn't paying much attention to what Captain Stroud has on, but Sam… standing demurely beside him in that deep blue dress that pulls in at her waist and then flares out over her hips, the fabric hanging just above her knees… He imagines himself pinning her up against the wall in some dark corner, his hands slipping underneath the skirt of her dress as he presses his lips to hers, silencing any involuntary noises either of them might make—

_Pay attention! Fucking hell._

He snaps back to reality as Hoffman pins a medal on Cole's uniform—Corporal Cole, wow that sounds weird—and then shakes his hand. Great, it's Baird's turn now. He has to smile and look appreciative and honoured _but not cocky_ otherwise the media jackals (yes, thank god, journalists are back in business) will snap a picture and then his face will be all over tomorrow's paper: "Sergeant Baird not reserved enough at ceremony; sources report he's an asshole."

Hoffman steps in front of him, and Baird accepts the medal and promotion with his best sombre expression.

When the colonel gives Dom's Embry Star to Marcus, Baird does his best not to look at Sam's face. He's afraid of what he might see there.


	12. Snowflake

Sam's surprised when it happens, but she really shouldn't be. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, or so she's been told. And who better to imitate than a man who was present for the deployment of the imulsion countermeasure weapon that had ended the Locust war and the Lambent pandemic in one fell swoop?

The first one to start is a boy from Jacinto. He joins the army on his sixteenth birthday. His name is Logan. Days after Sam first meets him, she sees him again—only this time he's sporting a pair of blue goggles. Sam grins at the gesture. She wonders if Baird will find it cute.

He doesn't.

When she meets up with him in his room later, he is clearly annoyed. At first she thinks someone said something particularly stupid to him earlier, but it quickly becomes apparent that it's the boy who has Baird in such a bad temper. Muttered phrases like "frigging copy cat" and "little shit" tip her off.

"I think it's flattering," she says in an attempt to pacify him.

"Oh, _flattering_ , is it?"

Sam has to concentrate to keep her face straight. He's acting like a petulant child—but then again that's not really new.

To his credit, the boy sticks to his reverence of Baird, despite the latter's evident irritability whenever his admirer is around. Sam wonders if she should intercede, but a flustered and agitated Baird never fails to put her in a good mood. She wins more arguments. She expects Baird to relent eventually and give in to the obvious ego boost, but he shows no signs of getting over his irrational dislike of Logan.

Sam talks about it with Cole. His uncanny insight into his friend's mind is always appreciated.

"I thought he'd be thrilled," she sighs, as they watch Baird shoot glares at Logan across the crowded mess.

Cole shrugs. "He likes praise, sure. But the goggles have always been his _thing_ , like Marcus's do-rag, or Dizzy's hat. It's supposed to be uniquely his."

"So, what, he thinks the kid's trying to steal his identity?"

Cole chuckles. "It does sound pretty silly."

But Sam feels that this is important; she mentally files it away for later, before continuing the conversation. "I just can't figure out why Logan would choose Baird of all people to idolize. He's kind of a tosspot."

Cole raises his eyebrows at her. "Pot calling the kettle black, don'tcha think?"

"I don't _idolize_ him. If anything I know when to take him down a peg."

"And that's been good for him."

Sam grins, and glances over at Baird. Logan and the goggles have disappeared, but this doesn't stop Baird from scowling down at his plate. "I will admit, I am fond of that man."

Cole shrugs again. "You're the one who has to deal with him. Good luck, Sammy."

 

* * *

 

After a week she decides to bring it up again. Tactfully.

They are alone in her quarters, getting ready to settle down for the night. Baird stands at the small sink in the corner, his back facing her, while she lounges on her bed, already in her jarmies (as she calls them, because she knows how he _hates_ that word). It's a wonderfully relaxed atmosphere, and Sam knowingly shatters it with one short sentence.

"Seen Logan around lately?"

Baird stiffens and she has her answer. But she is no longer content to sit back and watch (and listen) to him complain about such a trivial matter. If she has to tear into him and rip out the problem with her fist, so be it.

"Why do you want to know?" he asks finally.

"Oh, no reason," she says in an airy voice. "I'm just wondering how much longer you're going to sulk because a teenager pissed you off."

He turns slowly to look at her. She expects an incensed expression on his face, but instead she sees astonishment, like he's shocked that she can't comprehend his anger.

"Do you seriously not understand why that little runt gets under my skin?" He shakes his head. "What if some kid started wearing a green headband every day? How would you feel then?" He folds his arms across his chest as if he's beaten her.

"Wouldn't bother me. Unlike _some people_ , I can take a compliment."

"It's not a frigging _compliment_ , it's an _insult_!"

It would be easy to blow up at him—at the ludicrousness of the whole situation—but she figures that won't be a productive approach. Besides, she really _does_ want to reconcile Baird to Logan. The kid's in the army for the long haul, and she doesn't think she can take a drawn-out rivalry.

"Baird, come on. Tell me what's really going on."

He frowns at her, clearly deciding if he should throw another fit or not. Then his shoulders sag in defeat and he slumps over to the bed. He sits down next to her, but avoids meeting her gaze.

"I get that it's kind of stupid, okay? It's just…" He rubs the back of his neck, a telltale sign of self-consciousness. "God, this sounds so childish. The goggles are _my thing_. I've worn them since even before I enlisted. Pissed my parents off to no end, so that was a bonus. And to see some random kid appropriate the thing that's been part of me for so long, it just feels… I dunno, weird."

That he's actually opened up, Sam takes as a significant victory. She'll have to remember this the next time she's furious with him. To show her appreciation and sympathy, she stretches a hand out and grasps his wrist.

"You know when people look at Logan they think of you, right? It's bloody obvious that he's imitating a certain asshole mechanic."

He shoots her a look and she smiles sweetly.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She gives him a supportive squeeze. "You're a special snowflake, Damon Baird."

His nose wrinkles in disgust. "You did _not_ just call me that."

"That's what you want to hear, isn't it? That you're _so_ terribly unique and wonderful?"

"Stop it."

Laughing at his embarrassment, she elects to relent. Instead, she gives his wrist a firm tug, pulling him down onto his back. "Well, now that I've solved this existential crisis, I think it's time for a good night's sleep. I'm in my jarmies."

He rolls his eyes. "Please stop calling them that. _Pyjamas_. God, you sound like a frigging five year-old."

As she reaches over to turn out the light, she smirks at him. "Hey, I'm a special snowflake too."


	13. Haze

Sam enters Baird's room to find him sitting on the bed, cleaning his armour. She rolls her eyes in disgust; cleaning is a weekday job, recurrent and mind-numbingly boring. So _of course_ on a beautiful night like tonight—the start of the first weekend they've both been off-duty in nearly a month—she would find her boyfriend polishing his armour. Antisocial prick. They should be down at the mess getting rip-roaring drunk—but she sees that he's already changed into his sweats. There'll be no getting him out of the room now.

Luckily she's come prepared.

She kicks the door shut with a little too much gusto and saunters towards the bed. Annoyingly, Baird hasn't looked up yet. Doesn't matter. She can still save this night. Taking the board she's carrying out from under her arm, she slams it down on the floor with enough force to get his attention. She puts the moonshine down with much more care. Baird flicks his eyes up and gives her an irritated look, as if interrupting his cleaning regimen is the worst thing she could have possibly done.

"Where's your alcohol?" she asks, aware that she's slurring her words slightly. The few pints she had with Dizzy earlier are showing.

"Why?" he returns warily. At least he doesn't question how she knows about his cache. She would hate to admit to snooping.

"Because, _darling_ ," she says as she gets to her feet (she knows he keeps a bottle of rum at the back of his closet), "I'm going to teach you how to play navy chess."

Baird heaves a sigh, but he's stopped rubbing at his chest piece. "It's not chess, it's checkers. And why would I want to learn how to play this game?"

"Because." Her hand grasps the neck of the rum bottle, hidden poorly behind a pile of wrinkled clothes. "You owe me a game."

She turns around just in time to see the pained expression on his face. So he hasn't forgotten about that time on Vectes. Good. She doesn't want or need an apology, but a little acknowledgement of how much of a dick he was is always welcome. Baird slides onto the floor, crosses his legs and looks resigned. Now that's more like it.

"Okay, let's do this."

"Great!" Sam claps her hands together. "Now go get us twenty-four shot glasses."

 

* * *

 

Half an hour later they are finally actually ready to play the game. It would have been sooner if Baird hadn't spent nearly ten minutes arguing about who should go hunting for shot glasses. The delightful spinning sensation in Sam's head is starting to fade, and she snaps at him to set up the board some time this century.

Baird rolls his eyes and continues pouring the rum at his methodical pace. Sam huffs and snatches the moonshine away from him. If she helps then maybe they can start the game before the sun starts to come up. After they finish pouring out the shots, Baird demands to be the moonshine pieces.

"If my rum's getting drunk, it might as well be me doing the drinking."

Sam can't complain. "White moves first, then."

And they start.

Because Sam is actually more sober than she's letting on, she notices that Baird is taking it easy on her. Genius mind like his must have the next five moves planned out already. She doesn't get angry though; he has some catching up to do. So when she takes his first piece she grins triumphantly, like it was sheer dumb luck and not strategy. Baird knocks the shot back quickly and goes back to analyzing the board.

Her boyfriend is maddeningly slow at navy chess. The whole bloody point of the game is to get absolutely shitfaced. It doesn't matter who "wins", the real winners are the ones who get so drunk they forget there was even a game to begin with. But Baird's pathological need to be the best is coming out in full force, driving Sam to the point of insanity when it takes him longer than a minute to make a move.

"Oh for fuck's sake, would you _just go_?" she snaps eventually.

Baird flashes her a winning smile, and doesn't move for another thirty seconds.

 

* * *

 

The real fun happens when they forget who an empty shot glass belongs to.

"It's mine," Baird insists.

"Nope, definitely mine." Sam is adamant. She _knows_ —she was watching. Five moves back when she moved that glass herself.

"You liar," he says. His cheeks are starting to flush—a good sign. "'S mine, I remember."

"Keep telling yourself that. Just remember that you're the one has to live with the knowledge that you cheated to win."

His face goes red, from more than just the alcohol. He hates it when people question his intelligence, and Sam is doing just that by insisting that he's cheating (which he is). " _Fine_. Take the fucking glass then. I don't give a fuck."

Oh, he's pissed now. Sam has to fight to hold back a smile. She uses the contested piece to pour the last full shot of rum. "Drink up, loser." And she toasts him with the empty glass for good measure.

Baird scowls at her and snatches the rum off the board. He downs it in one gulp and jerks his head as the rum burns down his throat. And now Sam decides to make the move she's been waiting for since the game started. As Baird looks back at her, clearly furious, she puts on her best sultry expression. His anger cracks for a second as his eyes sweep up and down her body. She leans forward slightly, taking advantage of the way her shirt gapes. That catches his attention.

"Y'know, I'm a little sad. I never got to taste the rum."

Baird cocks his head. "Rum's gone, Byrne. Unless you want to go raid the mess bar… uh… what're you…"

Sam crawls forward—over the board, knocking the empty shot glasses over—licking her lips with meaning. Under less drunken circumstances, she would cringe at how much she resembles a cat. And Baird would crack a joke about her being an animal. But these are very drunken circumstances. Her inhibitions (what few she has when sober) are gone, and his brain can't work fast enough to tease her.

She stops inches from Baird's face, and his slow, expectant exhale settles on her skin. "Can I have a taste?"

"You forced me to drink it," he retorts with a lopsided smile that she thinks is supposed to be charming.

Her hand reaches out and grabs the back of his neck. "Come here, you stupid bastard." And she smashes their mouths together without another thought.

 

* * *

 

She knows she's awake when she becomes hyperaware of the churning in her stomach and the pounding in her head. As the feeling slowly ebbs back into her body, she realizes she's on the floor—and has been for a while, judging by the aching of her hip. The blanket off Baird's bed is splayed across her body. And she's naked. So the previous evening must have ended well.

Turning her head slowly, she sees Baird passed out beside her. His hair is tousled and messy, and he's sporting a nice series of hickeys on his neck. She smirks as she imagines his fury when he looks in a mirror. Those are going to be hard to hide. As if sensing her gaze, he begins to twitch and groan. The room is starting to spin, so Sam lies back down.

Baird's eyes open for a split second, and then shut immediately at the blinding light. "My head… Ugh, what did you _do_ to me?"

She smiles sweetly at him. "What, never had a hangover before?"

"Not on Dizzy's moonshine. Fuck." He goes to sit up, and then evidently thinks better of it. Instead he drapes an arm over his face and groans again. "Shit, I can barely remember last night. It's all hazy."

"I remember beating your sorry arse at navy chess."

" _Checkers_ ," he insists. His obsession with being right is equal parts endearing and infuriating. "And might I add that it speaks volumes to my skills that you had to get me drunk to beat me."

She elbows him, perhaps a little harder than necessary. "Hey, I was pretty off my face too. It was an even playing field."

"Ha, you wish." A few moments of silence pass before he continues. "You should go get us some coffee."

"Me? Why not you?"

He lifts his arm up to glare at her. " _You_ did this to me. I'm just going to stay here for the rest of the day."

Instead of getting up, Sam rolls across the floor, taking the blanket with her. Baird lets out a long suffering sigh and pushes himself onto his elbows. He gives her an unimpressed look. "I hate you."

"I know you do," she retorts. And grins.


	14. Transformation

What other morons call "love", Baird has always known as a chemical process that causes delusion. More specifically, a chemical process that causes delusion for the purpose of getting you laid; so you can share your genetic material, go forth and multiply, propagate the species. All that bullshit. Of course, he never expressed his true feelings on the subject to any of his girlfriends.

"Yeah baby, I love you too," he'd say, when what he really meant was _I love your ass, you have nice tits,_ or _that thing you do with your tongue is really neat._

His body would play along, of course. Dopamine, norepinephrine and serotonin would flood his system, creating the illusion of lust. Only once had oxytocin and vasopressin reared their ugly heads, chemicals more closely linked to that tedious and dangerous long-term bonding—and that had been the signal to get the hell out of that relationship.

The point being, Baird knows what love is: nothing more than a series of chemicals pouring into your brain on account of your mammalian drive to mate and reproduce. Nothing special, nothing to get excited about, and certainly nothing _romantic_. He knows better.

Or, at least, he thought he did.

It's a very noticeable change. He can pinpoint the exact moment when it happens. And it's terrifying.

Sam usually wakes up before him. Her internal clock renders alarms useless, and her movement on the bed always stirs him from sleep. This morning is no different. He keeps his eyes closed until he feels her get out of bed—his bed; last night they stumbled back here. When the mattress shifts, he cracks an eye open to watch her.

She's standing with her back to him, so he takes in her in: her curves, the dark whorl of her mussed hair against her neck, the steps of her spine, the barest glimpse of one breast. And a strange feeling comes over him, something akin to dizziness. He's overcome by the sensation of being filled up, so full he thinks he might burst. It's painful, but in a pleasant way; he's full with everything that she's given him.

Suddenly, it's incredibly obvious. He can feel it in his blood and bones.

Panic sets in milliseconds later. This isn't right. Love is a fallacy, something for the idiotic and sentimental to philosophize over and write sappy poetry about. Damon Baird is neither idiotic nor sentimental. So what the hell is this?

Sam turns, holding her creased shirt against her chest. He quickly composes himself, but evidently he's not fast enough. She cocks her head slightly, catching a fleeting trace of his alarmed expression before he can erase it. However, she seems to decide it isn't serious enough to mention and goes back to gathering up her clothes.

After she leaves to freshen up in her own quarters, Baird sits up. He swings his feet over the side of the bed and buries his face into his legs. His fingers grasp the hair on the back of his neck and he breathes out a long, frustrated sigh.

This wasn't supposed to happen. Not to him. But it has. He can keep denying it, but some part of him _knows_ now. The answer to a question he doesn't want to ask.

_Shit._


	15. Move

She asks him in such a casual tone that, for a second, he doesn't understand what she means.

"Do you want to move in with me?"

She can't mean into her quarters; there isn't nearly enough space for the both of them. So he looks at her questioningly and waits for her to elaborate. Apparently, the civvie woman from Vectes assigned to Sam's old house got herself hitched and moved out. And seeing as relations have been pretty good with the local Stranded lately, Hoffman doesn't see a problem in letting Sam move out of the barracks and back into her mother's place.

And she wants him to move with her.

Baird keeps his expression controlled as Sam lays it all out in front of him. He hasn't planned on this. He hasn't planned on anything. When he first hinted at his feelings all those months ago on Azura, he hadn't been expecting to survive the next couple hours. Yet here he is. Even with his whole life suddenly before him, he doesn't spend much time considering the future. He just takes it one day at a time.

It won't be a huge change. It's been about two months since he slept alone in a bed. They bounce back and forth between each other's rooms; maybe it's not the most _convenient_ set-up, but it works.

And now she's got that look on her face: the one where she's trying to act all tough and like it doesn't matter, but really her heart's on the line. Guilt creeps up into his chest. He can't bring himself to disappoint her. Besides, it won't be much of a change. Not really.

But he's still terrified as he finally responds, "Sure, why not?"

 

* * *

 

He's barely set foot inside before he's spotted at least a dozen problems that will require his immediate attention. Loose roof tiles, rotting porch, a front door that doesn't quite close properly, a dripping faucet in the kitchen. He glares around the interior of the house, mentally creating a list in order of descending priority. As he hits number nine, Sam brushes past him and steps inside. He gets a quick glimpse at the expression on her face and slams the breaks on his train of thought.

She looks like she's home.

Sam's always been one to wear her heart on her sleeve, and now is no exception. Her face is soft and warm, and the way she looks at the inside of her house is almost reverential. She places her hand on the back of a chair and squeezes, as if the piece of furniture was an old friend in need of comfort.

Baird frowns, imagining what it would be like to return to his childhood home. Not that he could, seeing as it (along with the rest of Jacinto) is currently miles underwater. He doesn't really have any happy memories from growing up in the Baird mansion, save the few precious moments when he could escape his familial obligations and retreat to his room to work on his latest invention. He remembers building machines and dreaming of mechanical engineering school—but an engineer was not an acceptable occupation for the proud scion of the Baird-Lytton family. He had been a fool to even entertain the idea.

He pushes the thoughts from his mind and turns his attention back to Sam. She's looking at him now, poorly concealed concern evident in her furrowed brow. She must have seen his face when he was thinking of his youth. He doesn't want her to get the wrong idea, that being in her house has brought on this crabby mood.

"Sorry, I was just thinking of… something else." She doesn't need to hear him complain about his upbringing. His poor little rich boy woes pale in comparison to growing up in the ass-end of the world, worrying about whether or not there would be enough food to get through the week.

Sam smiles gently at him, and Baird wonders if she's been able to guess what was bothering him. She and Cole have developed an uncanny (and annoying) ability to read his thoughts. "Come on, let's go upstairs."

They climb the creaky wooden staircase that leads to the bedroom. His bedroom now. _Their_ bedroom. It's more of a loft than anything, with only a small closet and an old wardrobe for storage. Not that they have much. All of Baird's worldly possessions fit into one COG standard issue duffle bag.

But the view. Now, that is something.

The Olencu house is skinnier than the others around it, but it makes up for it with height. Directly in front of the bed is a window, slanted with the roof. Baird can see out over the tops of the other houses in Anvegad, right over the walls of the fort to the forest. The sun is just beginning to dip behind the treetops, filling the room with a warm orange glow. It's one of the most beautiful views Baird has ever seen—and that's saying a lot, considering all the exotic family vacations he's been on.

"Wow," he breathes.

"Yeah." Sam stands beside him. "I always loved watching the sunset."

She takes his hand in hers. He glances sideways at her, and the effect she has on him is instantaneous. The way the light settles on her skin and reflects in her dark eyes… it makes his pulse pound and his mouth go dry. Suddenly he is very glad for this newfound privacy; he doesn't have to worry about noise or who might be listening. He has her all to himself in this room… their room.

As he kisses her, part of him thinks it's a shame to turn his back on such a picturesque scene. But the rest of him knows that there will be many more evenings like this when he can watch the sunset in its entirety.


	16. Mad

Baird is perfectly content to spend the day doing repairs in Anvil Gate's garage; Sam will be working the entire day, so it's better than sitting in an empty house all day, trying to entertain himself. Work keeps him focused and passes the time quickly. However, he's only in the garage for about ten minutes before he hears the door open and the familiar gait of someone coming his way.

"Baby!"

Fighting back a smile, Baird turns around to face his friend. If he lets Cole know that he's actually pleased to see him, the interruptions will become constant and then Baird will never be able to get any work done.

"Cole," he says, folding his arms across his chest. "Need something?"

Instead of answering, Cole grabs a nearby chair and spins it towards himself with a casual finesse that definitely _does not_ make Baird jealous. Cole sits backwards in the chair, resting his arms on its back and flashing Baird a bright, expectant smile. Oh. So it's going to be one of _those_ conversations.

"You, my man, have been keeping me in the dark." Cole's tone, as always, is jovial and buoyant, but Baird thinks he can detect the tiniest amount of hurt underneath all that cheer. "A little birdie told me that your living situation is, ah, _changing_."

Baird groans inwardly, knowing exactly who to blame for this information leak. Mataki couldn't keep her mouth shut around Cole if her life depended on it. The two of them probably have conversations about him behind his back, picking apart his love life and discussing how to make him a better person. Goddamn it.

"Changing. Yeah, sure. Kind of." Baird shrugs noncommittally.

" _Kind of_? You're moving in together! That's a big change."

The familiar knot of panic forms in Baird's chest; he hates making a big deal out of this. "It's not really. I mean, we basically live together already. It's just a… scenery change."

Cole gives him a look, and then abruptly switches subjects. "So have you told her yet?"

"Told her what?" Baird asks, even as the colour begins to creep into his face. He knows where this is going; Cole's been skirting around the edges of this conversation for weeks.

"That you love—"

"No." Baird turns his back on his friend, squeezing his eyes shut.

"And why not?" From Cole's tone, Baird can tell that the smile has slipped off his face.

"Because. I… I…" It isn't often Baird is lost for words, but Cole has a way of asking the questions that completely kill his vocabulary.

"Don't tell me that you don't, because I will have to call bullshit."

"No! I'm not saying that I don't—"

"Good. If you really were that in-denial, I'd have to drag you into Mataki's room and stage an intervention."

Baird shivers at the thought. Having friends who watch out for him, want the best for him… It's still new and just a little unsettling. "How did you figure it out? I never said anything."

"Baby, I've known you for sixteen years. You're not as subtle as you think you are. I see the way you look at her when you think no one is watching."

"Cole, that's just a little bit creepy—"

"And I see the way she looks at you."

That shuts him up.

"Look, Damon…" Oh lord, he's using his first name. Now Baird is _really_ in trouble. "I know having a heart and actual human feelings are new to you, but _come on_ , man. If you love a lady and she loves you, I don't see why it's such a big deal to, y'know, actually _tell her_."

"Because I'm afraid she won't say it back!"

An awkward silence descends over the garage. Baird feels almost light-headed; how long has he felt this way, kept this fear caged deep inside, and now he's suddenly given it a voice? The confession, if it can really be called that, leaves him breathless and completely unwilling to say anything else.

But then a snort of laughter from behind him has Baird spinning around to glare at Cole. "You find that _amusing_?" he spits.

Cole isn't even trying to suppress the massive grin spreading across his face. "Sorry, but yeah."

"I just laid my frigging soul bare, and you're _laughing_ about it?"

"Again, yes. You're being ridiculous."

" _What_?"

" _Of course_ Sam loves you!" Cole isn't angry; he sounds equal parts exasperated and amused. "She does more than just _put up_ with you, if that's what you're worried about. She asked you to _move in with her_. If that's not a sign that she's committed to this relationship—to _you_ —then I don't know what is."

Baird doesn't argue, doesn't fight. He just lets Cole's words wash over him, trying to take them to heart. God, he wishes he could believe it— _really_ believe it, even just for a moment. But there's this one massive obstacle in his way: Dom.

Sam didn't have a choice about moving on. Dom died, but had her feelings died with him? Baird doesn't want to ask the question because he's terrified of the answer. Cole seems certain, but his heart isn't the one tied up in all this. And maybe Baird is being ridiculous, paranoid—but where he is, where him and Sam are now, he likes it. He doesn't want it to change.

But it is changing, whether he likes it or not. And Cole isn't going to let up unless Baird pretends like his words of wisdom have miraculously changed his mind.

"You're right. I'm being idiotic. I'll talk to her."

Cole stares evenly at him. "I can tell when you're lying, Damon." He gets to his feet, walks over to Baird, and places a hand on his shoulder. "Just… think about it. It would mean a lot to her."

Baird doesn't say anything, and Cole takes the silence as his cue to leave. When the door to the garage swings shut, Baird lets his posture slump forward.

"Sure," he says to the empty room. "I'll think about it."


	17. Companion

Sam hates this time of the year. She hated it as a child, too. On the first day of Rise, everybody began treating her and her mother differently. It started out subtle enough, but as the weeks progressed it became more and more obvious—and annoying. As a kid Sam hated the way people would look at her when Brume began. That sad, pitying smile that all the adults gave her. How her friends became hyper-aware of whatever they said when she was around, and the uneasy looks they shared when they thought she wasn't watching. The hard, heavy weight that slowly settled in her gut over the weeks leading up to the anniversary.

Plenty of people died during the Siege of Anvil Gate, but for some reason Sam always felt as if she was singled out. _Look at her, poor thing. Her Tyran father died trying to hold this place._ _And he didn't even need to._ Hoffman had told her back on Vectes the exact circumstances concerning Samuel Byrne's death. It had hurt at first, knowing that she could have grown up with a father if he hadn't chosen to stay behind with his fellow soldiers. But Sam is a Gear as well as a daughter, and she knows how incredibly impossible that choice must have been. And she'd be lying if she said that she wasn't proud of her hero father. She still wishes she could have known him, though.

Sometimes it feels silly to mourn something she never had.

Her father is buried in the Anvegad cemetery, his grave on display for everyone to see. His date of birth, his date of death… She doesn't make a point of telling people who her father was, but most seem to know since she transferred to the Anvil Gate garrison. She was sixteen the last time she was home for the anniversary of her father's death. It's been a long time, but that doesn't make it any easier.

_I just have to get through today and tomorrow, and then there'll be a whole year before I have to deal with this again._

Over the years Sam has developed a strategy for handling this time of year: she keeps herself busy. An idle mind is her worst enemy; it gives her time to think, to dwell. Although this year she can make a trip to his grave again. It will be the first time she's done this without her mother.

Cole finds her replacing the siding on her bike in a garage, something she's been putting off for a while. When Sam sees him approaching, she's mildly surprised that he's alone. It's not often that she sees Cole without Baird. In this instance, she's glad. Cole has a much better than Baird at dealing with the tough emotional issues.

"Hey, Sammy." Cole flashes his customary smile, but there's seriousness in his demeanour. She knows that look. _Not you, too…_

"Hey, Cole. What's up?"

He squats beside her so they can talk at the same level. Sam braces herself.

"Look, I know what tomorrow means to you, but I figure you don't want everyone giving you the sad eyes. I got enough of that when my folks passed." He pauses for a second, fighting for the right words. "I just wanted to talk to you about… Baird."

This catches her off guard. She doesn't know where he's going with this, so she simply nods and waits for him to continue.

"I don't want either of you two to be disappointed. So just… don't expect much tomorrow, okay?"

A pang strikes deep in her chest. She knows this already, but it hurts for someone else to tell her. She tries to play it off. "I wasn't exactly expecting him to bake a cake, Cole."

He gives her a small grin, but she can tell there's more he wants to say. "Baird doesn't do well with emotional stuff—parent stuff especially. He didn't get on with his folks. He never talks about them. I don't even know how or when they died."

Sam marvels at how well Cole knows his best friend. In another relationship it might seem callous or unfeeling to never ask those questions. But Baird is a special case. Constantly prodding him for answers never yields results. He mostly reveals his past in short, arbitrary bursts; and on the rare occasion when those memories come out it's best to just listen and then act like he never said anything. Cole gets that. He _gets_ Baird. Sixteen years is a long time to be friends, but sometimes Sam forgets that the two men didn't grow up together.

Cole's been frank with her, so she decides to afford him the same courtesy. "I really wasn't expecting anything. Seriously. I mean, maybe some part of me hoped that he'd surprise me, but I know that this makes him uncomfortable. I was just gonna spend the day in here. Maybe get some flowers and visit Dad's grave later."

"You deal with it how you deal with it." Cole places a hand on her shoulder and squeezes it gently. "And if you need anything, I'm here."

She's overcome with fondness for her friend. "Thanks, Gus. I might take you up on that."

He nods, and gets to his feet. "I'll let you get back to your bike. Don't stay out too late."

 

* * *

 

She rises early the next morning, before the sun is up. As soon as her eyes open, she feels it in full force—the weight deep in her gut, pulling her down, making her feel hard and fragile at the same time. Baird is out cold beside her; he grunts and snuffles in his sleep as she eases off the mattress, but doesn't wake. She tiptoes out the door and heads to the mess. Food should be out—or at least leftovers from last night—and hopefully there won't be any people yet.

She's dressed and out the door in ten minutes. The outside air still carries the night's chill, and she shivers slightly. The stars are still visible against the slowly lightening sky. It's peaceful and quiet, but Sam knows that in only a few hours the fort will be bustling with activity. Better to enjoy the silence while she can—alone, without any sympathetic smiles.

The mess is empty when she arrives, and she breathes a sigh of relief. She was dreading the potential of awkward small talk, about why she was up so early and where she was going. Unfortunately, there isn't much food out. She settles for munching on toast while she heads to the garage. She'll be starving by supper, but she'd rather suffer the pains of her stomach than the uncomfortable gazes of her fellow Gears.

 

* * *

 

Around noon, Sam begins to wish she hadn't told Cole she wanted to be alone today. She knows that he won't seek her out for fear of seeming overbearing, but she could really use someone to do a lunch run for her. The sounds coming from her stomach are not pleasant ones. But as stupid as it might be, Sam can't bring herself to leave the solitude of the garage. She doesn't want to bump into anyone she knows after having already disappeared for the entire morning. Questions are her worst fear: "How are you doing?" "Are you feeling okay?" Even worse is the sickly condolence "I'm so sorry for your loss". She never knows how to respond to that, so she avoids it altogether.

Despite her growing need for food, Sam resolves to stay hidden away. Perhaps if she focuses on her bike enough, the hunger pains will become more bearable.

Just as she grits her teeth with determination, two things happen at once: her stomach, as if in protest, lets out the loudest gurgle yet, and the door to the garage swings open. Sam freezes, immediately overcome by panic. She hadn't anticipated this. There are no pressing repairs that need to be done; the garage should be deserted for at least a week. _Maybe someone's just popping in to grab something. Won't take long._ Besides, she's tucked away in a back corner. If she's quiet, hopefully whoever it is will find what they're looking for without even knowing she's there.

But then she hears footsteps coming closer; not wandering, meandering footsteps, but the sound of someone walking with a clear destination in mind. _Maybe it's Cole. Maybe he decided to look in on me after all._ Sam brushes her hair out of her eyes, and steels herself for the inevitable encounter.

It's not Cole.

When Baird peeks his head around the corner, Sam feels like the proverbial deer in headlights. Her reaction, she realises, is completely ridiculous. They've been in similar situations dozens of times before; there is absolutely no reason for her heart to be beating as fast as it is. And yet, she is terrified.

Baird seems to sense her discomfort and stops in his tracks—an awkward distance remains between them. Sam tries not to take that as some sort of symbol for their relationship. She notices that Baird has a brown paper bag clutched in his hand. He sees her looking at it, and holds the bag up in front of him—either as an explanation for why he is here, or as a barrier between them.

"I, uh, brought lunch," he says hesitantly. Apparently he's just as uneasy as she is, if not more so. "If you… want it."

Sam is caught off-guard by this gesture that she doesn't even begin to formulate a response. But her stomach comes to her rescue with a low, almost plaintive gurgle. Her mouth pops open in surprise and embarrassment, and Baird barely holds back a snort of laughter. It breaks the tension between them.

"Yeah, I feel like I could eat a horse and chase the jockey."

Baird rolls his eyes at her idiom and closes the distance between them. He offers her the bag and after she takes it she notices there are two sandwiches inside. She stares for a fraction of a second too long, and Baird clears his throat.

"I thought I'd join you. If that's all right."

Sam wanted so desperately to be alone when she woke up this morning. She actively dodged people, friends and strangers alike, utterly intent on spending the day in sombre solitude. But as Baird waits for her permission—to _eat lunch_ with her—she finds that, deep down in her bones, she really doesn't want to be alone after all. Joy surges up inside her, because she wasn't the one who had to seek someone out. He came to her. It clearly makes him anxious and unnerved, but he came to her anyway.

She smiles at him, hoping the tears welling up aren't too obvious. "Yeah. That'd be great."

He looks surprised that she said yes, but also pleased. He sits down beside her and she tosses him the second sandwich. Sam is content to eat in comfortable silence, but after she swallows her first bite she finds herself saying, "I wish my mum could've met you."

Baird blinks at her, and she can practically see the wheels in his head turning as he attempts to formulate an appropriate response. "So I'm meet-the-parents-material, huh?"

Something twinges inside her. _Parent. Singular._ But she breathes, and the pain eases out of her with her breath. Deliberately avoiding his question (he'll be unbearably smug for the rest of the day if she gives him the satisfaction), Sam sighs dreamily. "Oh, she would have eaten you alive."

" _What?_ " Baird looks affronted.

"God, I can't even imagine how furious she would have been if I'd brought a Tyran boy home."

"But… didn't she…?"

"Parents really hate it when you do the same things they did as children." Sam surprises herself by finding that, yes, she can talk about her dead parents, and no, she isn't going to burst into tears. And with _Baird_ , of all people.

He huffs, indignant. "Please, I'm a frigging _catch_. Smart, good-looking, rich…"

"Run that last one by me again," Sam teases.

The hardness in her gut doesn't feel so heavy anymore.


	18. Summer

Baird has only been to Mercy once since it happened.

It was a few weeks after the end of the Locust-Lambent War, once everyone had settled down. Vehicles were using regular old fuel again, now that immulsion was gone, and communications had been established with Hoffman at Anvil Gate. Baird hadn't been present when Marcus broke the news about Dom—over the _radio_ —to Hoffman and Bernie; he hadn't wanted to hear their reaction. He's pretty sure he wouldn't have been able to handle it.

Anyway. Once the euphoria had begun to dissipate, folks got to thinking about all the people who had died in the past fifteen years of fighting. And Delta Squad was thinking about one member in particular. So they'd headed out, all of them—Marcus, Anya, Cole, Baird, Sam, Jace, Carmine and Dizzy—to Mercy to set up a memorial for Dom.

And now, a year later, Baird is on the road to Mercy again.

A year. Has it been that long already? It doesn't feel that long to Baird, despite how much has happened since Dom died. The end of a war, relocating to Anvegad, the commencement of a new relationship… He takes his eyes off the road for a second to glance at Sam. She's sitting beside him in the passenger seat of the Packhorse, her body turned away from him so she can stare out the window. He can't get a read on her facial expression, so he goes back to driving. Cole and Clay are in the back, both silent and grim-looking. Another Pack drives in front of Baird, carrying Marcus, Anya, Jace and Dizzy. Hoffman, Bernie, Rossi and Pad Salton head up the back of this small convoy.

_It almost looks like a funeral procession._

Baird flexes his fingers on the steering wheel. He's not looking forward to this trip to Mercy, as horrible as that sounds. And it's for completely selfish reasons: he doesn't want to be confronted with how much his life _hasn't_ changed following Dom's death. It's not that he doesn't miss Dom, because he does—or did, anyway. In the first few days and weeks after he learned about it, the knowledge that Dom was dead assaulted him on a daily basis. He had a hard time accepting it; Dom _couldn't_ be gone. Every time he saw Marcus he half-expected to see Dom beside the sergeant. And he's not entirely sure if he's accepted the fact that Dom is dead, even a year later. It just doesn't make sense to him. Dom was a staple in his life for two years; he usually saw the corporal at least once a week, if not more, after he was assigned to Delta.

But he and Dom hadn't been good friends. Baird wasn't as close to him as Cole was, and certainly not like Marcus. Slowly, Baird started to forget. He could go days without thinking about Dom. Life returned to normal for him much quicker than it did for anyone else. Moving to Anvil Gate helped; he was further away from Marcus and the empty space beside him. It got to be that the only time Baird was reminded of Dom was when he looked at Sam.

He feels terrible for finding it so easy to move on.

 

* * *

 

They hadn't set the memorial up where it happened. That would have been too awful. Instead, the memorial was placed in Mercy's cemetery, beside the Flores family grave. Baird knows that Maria isn't buried there; her remains are still down in the Hollow somewhere. He's not sure about the kids, and it seems a callous thing to ask.

Nobody says anything as they all stand around the grave. Jace has his head bowed and eyes closed, so Baird assumes he's talking to Dom or God or however that praying thing works. After what must be an appropriate amount of time, they begin to disperse, wandering the deserted town of Mercy to be alone with their thoughts. Cole heads off with Hoffman and Bernie, leaving Baird to stand awkwardly by Sam's side.

He should say something comforting, but he is so completely out of his depth that he figures it's probably better to just keep his mouth shut. He hopes his mere presence beside her is enough to communicate his unspoken sentiments: that he's at least here for her, even if he doesn't know what to do.

And suddenly Sam's shoulders are shaking and she's making a choked noise as she tries to hold back sobs. Baird panics immediately; he's never seen Sam cry like this before and he has no clue how to respond. But then she turns towards him, clutching at his shirt and burying her face into his shoulder. He wraps his arms around her, pulling her close and letting her tears soak into his shirt. Is it wrong that he's happy that he can be the one to do this?

_This_ is probably the only way Baird's life has changed since Dom's death. Because if Dom was still alive, Baird knows there is no way in hell that Sam would have ever looked twice at him.


	19. Order

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a head's up that this prompt contains passing mentions of the events from another story of mine, Desperate Measures. Don't worry, it's not required reading, I'm just letting you lovely people know so if you haven't read it you're not like, "Wait, I don't remember that happening in any of the games/novels!" Because I made it up.

* * *

 

Sam sits on Baird's side of the bed, her right leg bouncing up and down in a frantic rhythm.

 _I'm not worrying,_ she lies to herself. _I'm just antsy._

Antsy, because she is forcing herself to sit still when what she really wants to do is get up and pace around the bedroom. But that would be completely ridiculous. If she allowed herself to walk back and forth while biting her nails, she would have to admit that she _is_ worried about Baird.

_He's a grown man; he can take care of himself._

It's about the fifteenth time she's told herself that.

Baird has only been gone for slightly over twenty-six hours and she's already imagining worst-case scenarios. The thing is that she knows that she shouldn't be worrying about him; he's been on plenty of dangerous assignments before with Delta Squad. He was involved in the Lightmass Offensive, the Liberation of Jilane, Operation Hollow Storm, and most of the major skirmishes during the Stranded Insurgency on Vectes and the Lambent Pandemic. Damon Baird has proven multiple times that he can handle himself in the field.

But that doesn't stop Sam from worrying.

All of the dangerous shit he's done, that was all before they were together. She wasn't keeping tabs on his movements back then; he wasn't even on her radar until Vectes. Now she cares more about him than she ever thought possible, and so when he charges into danger it makes her heart beat faster and her mind race. Which, as she has already established, is ridiculous. He has Cole, Marcus and Jace watching his back. He's in _Delta_. The squad is indestructible.

Except it isn't. Not really. Because if Delta was untouchable then they wouldn't have been pinned down by the Formers and the Lambent in Mercy. If Delta was invincible, Dom would still be alive.

Sam squeezes her eyes shut as the familiar pain associated with thoughts of Dom surges up underneath her ribs. She pushes him away, because if she starts to dwell on that day in Mercy, she will _really_ start to panic. She'll storm into CIC, demand Delta's GID reading, and race out into the forest after them.

But orders are orders. If Hoffman tells her to stay and Baird to go, then Sam is in no position to argue. It doesn't mean that she has to like it, though.

It's just a simple two-day scouting mission into the woods surrounding Anvil Gate. Update the decades-old terrain maps and establish contact with more of the local Stranded while also locating the strongholds in the area. Piece of piss. Nothing to get all worked up about.

Except she is worked up and she can't help it. And she doesn't even have Cole to talk to because he's off on the same assignment. That fact should comfort her—Cole is insanely protective of Baird, and the feeling is mutual. Still, Sam misses Cole's easy, carefree attitude. Even if he was worrying about his friend, he would have lied and made her feel better.

Yes, she misses Cole's soothing company. But she misses her grumpy blonde mechanic even more.

 

* * *

 

The mission runs three hours longer than anticipated. It's not a lot of time, all things considered, but five minutes after the expected return time Sam starts to let the tension get the better of her. She wishes she could talk to Anya, but unfortunately she hadn't been brought out with Marcus to Kashkur. Maybe the blonde lieutenant was just as anxious as Sam back at Azura. The thought isn't reassuring.

The call comes in just after lunch. Sam is grabbing a quick meal with Dizzy when her earpiece crackles, and she's up and heading out of the mess before Hoffman's voice is informing her that Delta will be arriving back at the fort in ten minutes.

She's standing in the yard with Hoffman and Bernie when the main gate opens and the APC comes rolling through. Arms folded across her chest, she keeps her expression neutral as the door opens. Marcus and Jace hop out first, and she can't help but notice that Jace is sporting a black eye that he _definitely_ didn't have when he left. She chews on her lower lip, but Marcus isn't acting strangely or in any way indicating that there are more serious injuries than Jace's shiner. Hoffman and Bernie make a beeline for Marcus, probably to get his mission report.

And then, finally, Baird and Cole step out of the APC. A quick glance assures Sam that both Baird and Cole are unharmed, so she stops herself from running at them and tackling them to the ground. However, both men look exhausted, like they haven't slept since they left Anvegad fifty-two hours ago—not that Sam was counting or anything.

Cole spots her first and nudges Baird. "You've got a welcoming committee."

Baird's head jerks up and she swears that he almost smiles when he sees her. She _does_ grin and waves. "Hey."

"Hey yourself," Baird replies. When he comes up beside her, he throws an arm around her shoulders with such affectionate nonchalance that Sam has to bite the inside of her cheek to keep her smile from widening to idiotic proportions. "Miss me so much that you couldn't just wait for me at home?"

"What happened to Jace?" she asks, pointedly ignoring Baird's question.

Cole grimaces. "It was only half his fault. The local Stranded are _real_ friendly."

"Yeah, well." Sam shrugs. "When have we ever been on good terms with the Stranded?"

"Ungrateful assholes," Baird mutters under his breath.

"Well, I'm fit to pass out," Cole says, yawning with perfect timing. "I'll see you kids later."

Sam and Baird wave goodbye to Cole as he splits off and heads for the barracks. They stare after him for a few seconds before turning in the direction of their house. Baird's arm is starting to weigh Sam's shoulders down, but she won't complain or ask him to remove it; if Baird is in a mood to publicly show his fondness for her, she won't shake him off.

They don't say anything else until the door to the house closes behind them. Only then does Baird retract his arm, and he throws himself face down onto the couch with a dramatic groan. Sam sits on the armrest and begins to stroke his hair.

"Rough couple of days?" she asks.

"You have _no_ idea," he mumbles into the cushions. Then, realising his words are only barely distinguishable, he rolls onto his side and looks up at her. "We barely slept. The camps were further apart than we thought and Marcus was _frigging determined_ to make contact with all of them."

"Marcus always plays it safe now, after Mercy and everything that happened here."

Baird's jaw clenches and she knows he's remembering the sight of her, pale and bloody after her near-fatal encounter with a Stranded sniper, stumbling through the trees towards him. The memories of Aaron Griffin's brief but devastating attack on Anvil Gate—and Delta Squad in particular—aren't pleasant for her either. Baird had gone off on what was supposed to be a routine patrol and ended up kidnapped, and then after they'd saved him he'd taken a bullet for her and nearly died.

Given all that, Sam figures it's understandable that a "simple two-day scouting mission" would give her an anxiety attack.

And then, unexpectedly, Baird grasps Sam's wrist and tugs her down on top of him. She's surprised and mildly annoyed for a second before he's pushing her hair out of her face and kissing her lightly. Breathing a contended sigh out through her nose, she nestles in-between his body and the back of the couch.

"I'm glad you didn't get eaten by a bear," she says when he pulls away.

"Wait, there are _bears_ out there?!"


	20. Wind

Sam folds her arms across her chest. "What's the matter with you?"

"There is _nothing_ the matter with _me_!" he yells from across the room. As soon as it's out of his mouth, he squeezes his eyes shut briefly—and she thinks (hopes) he might apologize. "Pretend I said that without shouting."

Another day she might have let this drop. Not today. He's unreasonably irritable, and she can't figure out what set him off. "Just tell me."

Baird's face darkens despite her even-headed tone. "Fine. You wanna know what's pissing me off? You and Rossi."

"What the hell are you on about?"

"I saw you two in the mess today, getting all cosy in the corner."

"For god's sake, it's just _Rossi_. He's a friend. I'm allowed to have friends."

"I saw the way he was looking at you."

"You've got to be fucking kidding me. He has a _girlfriend_."

"That doesn't mean shit. He was still—"

"Damn it, guys have been looking at me like that since I was thirteen. _You_ look at me that way."

" _I'm_ allowed to!"

"What does it even matter? Even if you don't trust Rossi, you can trust me."

He hesitates for a fraction of a second. And it hits her like a tonne of bricks.

"Oh my god," she almost whispers. "You don't _trust_ me."

"I didn't say that." But the tone of his voice betrays him.

Her arms fall to her side. "You don't trust me. Ha. Okay." A lump rises up in her throat. Her vision blurs. _Wow, that came on fast. Come on, get a grip, Byrne._ "I get it."

And then her feet are moving and she's walking towards the door. It's late and a storm is blowing in, but she doesn't give a damn at the moment. She can't stay in this house for a second longer, not with him, not when he finds it so easy to imagine that she's fucking Rossi behind his back.

"Where the hell are you going?" Baird calls as she wrenches the door open.

She doesn't answer; he doesn't deserve it. The door slams with a satisfying bang, and she starts towards Anvegad's garage. That's where she's been keeping her bike. It's been a while since she's been out on it, but now she needs to clear her head and there's no better way than gunning it down the dirt roads outside the fort.

 

* * *

 

She doesn't start the engine until she's wheeled her bike about a kilometre away from Anvil Gate. The last thing she wants is to wake up the whole garrison and have Hoffman breathing down her neck about unauthorized leave. It's not leave, not really. She'll be back tonight at some point. Back inside the fort's walls, at least. She hasn't decided if she's going back to her house yet.

It's completely ridiculous, she thinks as she hops on her bike and sets off down the road. Ridiculous that she's fled her home because of the man she loves. Ridiculous that Baird can honestly believe that she would even _entertain_ the idea of fooling around with Rossi. Even if Drew didn't have a girlfriend, Sam is in a committed relationship. Does Baird really believe that she could be so fickle?

Baird has this issue: he imagines that he's fundamentally unlovable, that there's a part of him that will drive anyone close to him away. Sometimes he acts on that issue, forcing people out of his life so they don't have the chance to hurt him. And she gets it, she really does. But here's the thing: _everybody_ feels that way, at least to a certain extent. God knows her thing with Dom has left with her own insecurities. Part of her knows that it wasn't about her—after Maria, there never would have been another woman for Dom—but she still finds herself questioning and wondering why she wasn't enough, wasn't good enough, for him, because if she wasn't good enough for him then maybe she'll never be enough for anyone.

So Baird's fears don't give him the right to second-guess everybody around him. He doesn't get to have doubts about her, not when she's proven _over and over again_ that she wants to be with him, that she loves him, flaws and all.

She deserves better after all that they've been through.

Sometimes she wonders what the hell they're doing.

 

* * *

 

She doesn't know how long she's been out when the weather starts to turn bad. The trees on either side of the dirt path bend alarmingly easily under the force of the wind, and Sam considers that it might not be the smartest idea in the world to be outside right now.

The moment she makes the decision to turn around and head back to the fort, the skies open. It doesn't start with a slow drizzle and build up; it immediately begins down pouring, the wind pelting her with cold rain at such a speed that it almost feels like razorhail. Sam's stomach lurches as she realises that it actually could turn to razorhail—the deadly phenomenon has occurred in Kashkur before—and if it does, she is extremely screwed. The razorhail chunks would shred any tree she tried to use as shelter.

_I need to hurry._

The rain makes it hard for her to see where she's going as she speeds down the muddy road. She briefly wishes she had Baird's goggles to protect her eyes, and the thought of him is immediately followed by feelings of betrayal. Part of her doesn't want to go back, at least not to her house, not with him there, judgmental and accusing. But her common sense is telling her that it's stupid to stay out in weather like this just because she's had a spat with her boyfriend.

As upset as she is, she knows that she can't run away from this one. This fight—unlike other minor disagreements, born from lack of sleep or general crabbiness—needs to be resolved properly. Baird can't keep thinking she's going to sleep with every guy she smiles at. Growing up, Sam always found it easier to be friends with boys; the same holds true now. Despite the fact that there are very few female Gears, Sam has always considered herself "one of the guys". She's not going to stop being friends with people like Rossi, Dizzy and Pad Salton just because Baird is prone to paranoia.

Under the vibration of her bike, Sam can feel herself begin to shiver. She's wet through and her clothes are clinging to her like a second skin, sapping her body heat. Her house, unlike the spare quarters of Anvil Gate's barracks, at least has a fireplace she can huddle in front of.

It looks like she'd be going home after all.

 

* * *

 

She comes in the door; the sight that greets her is not one that she is expecting. She was prepared for Baird to already be in bed, angrily feigning sleep, or sitting on the couch with his arms crossed, looking severe. But that's not what she finds when she returns home. Instead she steps into a puddle that leads further into the house. She looks down, trying to figure out where the water could possibly have come from, when Baird comes clattering down the stairs.

He's the source of the puddle, soaked through and dripping all over the floor. Unless there's a pretty substantial hole in the roof, the only way he could have ended up this wet is if he'd gone outside. But why would he have left the shelter of the house during a rainstorm? Unless he'd gone after her…

Baird stops dead when he sees her standing in the doorway. Sam's still trying to piece together what's going on, so she keeps quiet, staring at him evenly. She's still mad at him— _furious_ —and she won't be the one to explain herself. Besides, she must make an interesting sight, wet to the bone and covered in mud.

She expects him to yell, but he doesn't. No, instead he closes the distance between them in a few long strides and pulls her in for a fierce hug. She hates herself for instinctively wrapping her arms around him, but she's still cold from being out in the wind and the rain and she can't stop herself from shaking like a leaf and _goddamn_ if he isn't somehow warm underneath his drenched clothes.

"Where the hell _were_ you?" His voice is muffled slightly by her hair; he sounds relieved, not angry at all.

"I was blowing off steam," she mumbles into his shoulder. She loosens her hug, but he shows no signs of letting her go anytime soon.

"You were gone for almost two hours."

"I had _a lot_ of steam to blow off."

There's a bit more venom in her voice than she intended; he pulls away slightly so she can see his face and she's surprised to find that he looks genuinely remorseful. This is so much different than any of their previous fights, where they would just ignore each other until they both decided it was better to pretend the fight had never happened in the first place. Usually he's indignant and self-righteous, never _ever_ admitting to his guilt this early on. She wonders if it's because she took off during a storm, or if there's something else going on.

"I'm sorry," he says, and Sam only just manages to stop her eyebrows from shooting up to her hairline. "That was incredibly shitty of me. You didn't deserve that."

"You're damn right I didn't," she retorts, finding that her fury is rapidly fading. She's still pissed at him, yeah, but the white-hot rage she felt even after the bike ride has dissipated remarkably.

"But we need to institute a rule about how you handle your anger, okay?" His face turns serious; indignation bubbles up in Sam's chest.

" _My_ anger? You—"

"Just shut up and listen for a second. You can yell at me later." He looks upset now, and he finally releases her from the hug. "Look, I was a dick and you were mad and I get it, I do, but there's a difference between being angry and taking off on your bike into a goddamn _hurricane_ —"

"It wasn't a hurricane," she argues.

His eyes flash at the interruption, and she can't really fault him for that. Maybe taking off in the dark of the night without a word about where she was going or when she'd be back wasn't the smartest—or most considerate—thing she'd ever done. In the heat of the moment, Sam hadn't been thinking about what effect her drive would have on Baird. After all, _he_ hadn't considered what effect his accusations would have on her. But he was apologizing now, so maybe she could afford him the same courtesy.

"I will concede," she begins slowly, "that it might have been just a little bit careless of me to storm off without telling you were I was going. But you did essentially accuse me of sleeping with Rossi, or wanting to anyway, behind your back."

He squeezes his eyes shut. "I know. I know, and I'm sorry. I know you wouldn't do that, I don't know why I even said it. I was just jealous that you and Rossi get along so well, but that's my problem and I took it out on you."

Sam has to physically stop her mouth from falling open. She's never heard Baird apologize so much before, or own up to the fact that he was having an issue that has nothing to do with her behaviour.

"I really am sorry," he says.

He has raindrops in his eyelashes and that's just not fair.

"Your apology is noted," she answers finally. "Acceptance is pending."

The corners of his mouth twitch but he keeps himself from smiling. "Fair enough."

"And I'm still mad at you."

He shrugs. "Also fair. Mad enough that you want me to sleep on the couch tonight, or…?"

She considers it, again surprising herself. There should have been no hesitation, but she finds herself thinking that she can still share a bed with him without letting him off the hook.

"No, you can come upstairs with me." She takes two steps and then stops abruptly; Baird nearly crashes into her. "But you are going to spend the rest of this month making this up to me."

"I can start making it up to you tonight," he murmurs, his hand coming to rest on her ass.

She's sorely tempted for a second, but she manages to push him away. "Oh no. No sex for you tonight, pal, because you'd enjoy it. I want you to suffer."

He laughs and goes to grab her ass again, just for the sport of it. She dances out of his reach and bounds up the stairs to their bedroom, smiling at the sound of his footsteps as he races after her.

Maybe they do know what they're doing after all.


	21. Knowledge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Different format for this one. Because why not.

* * *

 

"Baird? You there?"  
_Please be there. Please don't hear the panic in my voice._

"Yeah Sam, what's up?"  
_Something's wrong. Your voice is too high, and it's got that edge when you're upset but you're trying to hide it._

"I had a little accident. Can you come get me?"  
_I can't fucking believe it. Goddamn tire on my bike blew out going around a corner. And now I can't put all of my weight on my left foot._

"Any particular reason you're talking to me and not Hayman?"  
_Like I'm actually considering not going. Like I'm not already making a beeline for the door._

"It's no big thing, but Hayman will keep me in the infirmary all damn day if I go see her."  
_I don't want to admit that I hurt myself riding my bike. It's stupid and childish, but I want you to come get me. I just want to go home._

"I'm on my way."  
_You can't be hurt that badly if you're willing to skip a real doctor, but still I'm gonna drive like hell to get to you._

 

* * *

 

"Here, lean on me."  
_Shit, you can barely stand. I should've taken you straight to Hayman. Why did I let you talk me out of that?_

"I'm fine, really."  
_My ankle hurts like hell, but I'd rather be here than in the hospital._

"Sit on the couch and let me take a look at it."  
_If your ankle_ is _broken, I'm never letting you on that bike again._

"Ha, I always liked playing Doctor."  
_Distraction through humour. That frown on your face is freaking me out._

"You're hilarious."  
_Can't you take_ anything _seriously? I don't know if I want to hit you or kiss you_.

"So how's it looking, Dr. Baird?"  
_Come on, give me a smile._

"You know I'm a mechanic, not a doctor, right?"  
_I fix machines, not people. I don't want to screw up and make this worse than it already is._

"Come on, you're a smart guy."  
_I trust you._

"How does this feel?"  
_Squeezing her ankle bones like I'm a real doctor. How the hell am I supposed to tell if this is a sprain or a break?_

"Five out of ten on the pain scale."  
_Closer to seven—but if I tell you the truth, you'll flip out and send me to Hayman._

"Okay. I don't think it's broken."  
_But what the hell do I know? The swelling isn't too bad, there's minimal bruising, but there could be a hairline fracture that I'll never find. And if she keeps walking on it, that'll just make it worse._

"Well that's good."  
_You don't look happy. But I trust your judgment._

"If you still can't put any weight on it by tonight, I'm taking you to see Hayman. It could be a break or you might've ruptured a ligament."  
_I've half a mind to carry you over there now. Or I'll settle for carrying you around the house._

"Yes sir, doctor, sir."  
_Is it bad that I find it adorable when you go into overprotective mode?_

"Sit your ass down. If you want anything, I'll get it, seeing as I still have two fully-functioning ankles."  
_I only worry about you because I love you._

"Now don't you go spoiling me."  
_I know._


	22. Prepared

This was a terrible, awful, _stupid_ idea. She doesn't know what she was thinking. It's been almost seventeen years since she's stepped foot in a kitchen, and even back then she was no master chef. Still, she had thought that she could handle a simple sauce and pasta.

She swears that she only turned her back for a second; the sauce was bubbling along nicely and she'd foolishly allowed herself to think that she could actually do this, that she'd had this innate cooking genius buried her all along, waiting to blossom if only she gave it the opportunity. Not so. While she's rooting around in a drawer for tongs, she suddenly notices the unmistakable smell of something burning— _really_ burning.

"Bloody hell," she swears, whipping around.

A ludicrous amount of smoke is pouring out of the saucepan, and panic flares up in Sam's chest. Smoke means fire, and fire and the wooden structures of Anvegad _do not_ mix. She scrambles for the burner control, twisting it so hard she fears she might break it off. It's too late though; she checks the sauce and finds it has turned from something edible looking into a black, gungy glob. The wooden spoon she's been using to stir it is sticking out of the pot. How the hell had it changed so quickly?

As Sam is pondering her complete and utter failure with the sauce, she notices something in her peripheral vision: an orange flicker. Her heart thuds painfully as she realises the pasta is on fire. The pasta is _on fire_. How is this even _possible_? She reacts quickly, grabbing of the handle of the pot and practically flinging its contents across the kitchen and into the sink. She turns on the water, drowning the flames that have her heart beating at a shocking rate.

She almost burned her house down… making _spaghetti_. The shame and indignation set in after the alarm ebbs out of her system. What a spectacular disaster this has been. Part of her is horribly embarrassed at her lack of success, and another part is furious with herself for even _trying_. She isn't a housewife; she doesn't _have_ to cook and clean to please her hard-working husband. There was no reason she should have even attempted this.

If she can't cook dinner, she can at least erase the evidence of her failed effort. First, she needs to separate the spoon from the solid black mass caked inside the saucepan. She grips it and gives it a yank, but it won't budge. Frowning, she clenches her fist tighter and pulls—with more force than is necessary, it turns out. The spoon comes free, but Sam is unprepared for how easily it comes loose, and she ends up smacking herself in the jaw with the back of her hand.

And suddenly she can't take it anymore. She vehemently hurls the wooden spoon at the floor, where it bounces at the perfect angle and something splatters across her face and front. She stands there for a few seconds, shaking with rage, until she screams at the top of her voice, " _God-fucking-dammit!"_

Of course, Baird picks that exact moment to walk in the front door.

He freezes in the entryway and Sam can _feel_ his eyes on her, sweeping around the room as he tries to piece together what happened. If he smiles or laughs, she really will kill him. There will be no hesitation.

Having assessed the situation, Baird closes the door behind him—slowly, as if he's afraid any sudden movements will set her off. She folds her arms across her chest, doing her best to look furious and not humiliated.

"So, uh…" He takes a few steps closer, but stays out of the range of her fists. "Want to tell me what happened here?"

Sam takes a few steadying breaths. "I made dinner," she answers dryly.

"Ah," Baird says. He stays where he is.

An awkward silence hangs between them. The stillness of the house is unbearable, and it's late enough that there's no ambient noise from outside. Sam is desperate to break the tension, and settles on the first thought that comes to mind.

"Guess I wouldn't have been much use on that patrol boat."

Baird looks at her blankly, waiting for her to elaborate. _He doesn't remember_ , she realises. Strange that a moment that sticks so clearly in her mind is unremembered by the one who put it there.

"When we were back at Vectes. Me, you and—" She closes her eyes briefly. "—and Dom, on the _Amirale Enka._ You said something about me being there to cook and clean."

It's a bit of a lie; she remembers his exact words. _"And this is Private Byrne. She's here to cook and swab the decks."_

Baird still looks slightly confused, but she can see that he's thinking back, trying to recall. His expression flickers slightly and she knows that he's found the memory. "Yeah, I would say that, wouldn't I?"

This recollection somehow breaks the spell, and he walks towards her, peering at the charred remains of dinner on the stovetop. Sam stoops down to pick up the wooden spoon, sighing. They would have to go to the mess hall tonight.

"Shit, you burned the _pasta_?" Baird turns around, an amused expression on his face. "I didn't even know that was possible."

Ten minutes ago she would have punched him, but now she finds herself chuckling. "It's a talent."

His eyes focus on her cheek. "You've got a little…"

"Shit." Sam wipes away the residue with the back of her hand. "I guess we're eating out."

"Nah." Baird scrapes the burnt food into the rubbish bin, and places the pots in the sink. It'll take some scrubbing to get those clean. "I'll whip something up. You should go change; you're a mess."

"Thanks for that," Sam mumbles, but trudges towards the stairs. She glances over her shoulder when she's halfway up, surprised to see how at home Baird looks in the kitchen. "And he cooks, too…"

She takes a quick shower; the warm water does wonders for her defeated mood. When she steps out of the bathroom, a wonderful aroma is wafting up the stairs. Definitely not smoke, so that's a good sign. She makes her way back down to the kitchen.

Baird is an annoyingly good cook, as it turns out, and it rankles Sam more than she expected. She's not mad or jealous per se, just… Actually, she doesn't really know what she is. She doesn't know what she was thinking, trying to cook when she'd adamantly (offensively) to step foot inside the kitchen in this house from the time she was old enough to read a recipe properly.

"Samantha, you _have_ to learn how to cook," her mother had said, exhausted, on more than one occasion. "It's a basic life skill." She treated cooking like it was the be-all and end-all of a woman's existence.

"I don't _need_ to know," Sam always fired back. "When I'm a Gear, I'll eat in the mess like everyone else." She wanted to do more with her life than be a stay-at-home wife.

"Samantha." Her mother's face always clouded over, her brow furrowing darkly whenever Sam mentioned joining up. "A woman needs to know these things."

And then it would always escalate from there. Sam would maintain that she was going to enlist, Sheraya would object without saying _why_ , even though they both knew damn well it was because of her father, and the shouting match was inevitable. Stupid, stupid arguments. Such wasted time.

Baird notices Sam standing awkwardly by the counter and grins at her. "Perfect timing. I just finished."

Sam smiles weakly at him. "Thanks for saving that disaster."

He shrugs, bringing two plates over to the dinner table. "It's kind of like chemistry; knowing which ingredients to combine in what amounts to achieve the desired outcome…" He gives her a sideways look. "…instead of a horrible, gelatinous mess."

She shoves him playfully. "Hey, I tried. That's what counts."

"If you want, I could teach you."

"You want to teach the woman who managed to burn pasta?"

"I could _try_ to teach you. That's what counts, right?"

Sam thinks back over the past few months, over all they've both been trying. It hasn't been easy, at time, but the bad has undoubtedly been worth the good. "Yeah. That's what counts."


	23. Look

He's sitting on the couch in their living room, finishing up his side of the paperwork from Delta's last scouting mission. This is one of the downsides to ending the Locust-Lambent war: now that Gears aren't constantly fighting for their lives, the administration has decided they once again have time for pointless, menial tasks like paperwork.

Baird glances at the clock on the wall again—not to see how long he's been at his work, but to see how much time he has left. Ten minutes. She'll be done in ten minutes. Sam has been on the night patrol shift for the last four days. It means their schedules haven't been synching up. She gets in just as he's leaving; he's walking in the door and she's already outside the fort on patrol. He realises that four days—one hundred and four hours—isn't a big chunk of time to spend apart, but that doesn't mean he's not just a little bit excited to actually _spend time_ with the woman he's living with again.

The door creaks open behind him, but he pretends not to hear it. Sam always gets a kick out of thinking she can sneak up on him, and the gleeful smile his fake surprise produces is well worth the effort of the deception. Hands settle on his shoulders moments later; he jumps just enough to make it look like he's trying to suppress a startled reaction.

"Gotcha," she whispers into his ear.

"Only because I'm so focused on my work." He half-turns his head to meet her dark eyes. "You're not off until nine."

For having been up all night, Sam doesn't look all that tired. "I don't think Hoffman will mind me ducking out a few minutes early. Poor Drew was about ready to collapse."

Baird's jaw tightens involuntarily at the mention of Drew Rossi, but he keeps his mouth shut. He's learned his lesson. Sam notices; he can tell from the way her brow furrows slightly for a fraction of a second.

"Have I mentioned," she begins, and he recognizes it as her calculating tone, when she's choosing her next words carefully, "that you look fantastically hot in glasses? Not to mention _smart_."

"What?" His hand flies up to his face, and sure enough he finds the plastic frame there. _Damn. I completely forgot I was wearing those._ He quickly regains his composure. "You seem to be implying that I don't look dashingly handsome and intelligent all the time."

"Hmm." She kisses his cheek and he's annoyed to feel himself flushing slightly. "Are you on today?"

"Nope. Just have to finish this paperwork."

Her hands slide over the tops of his shoulders, moving down his chest. "Can it wait?"

The tone of her voice makes his belly flip-flop. "Yes. Yes it can."

 

* * *

 

Later, when they're both still panting and covered by the threadbare blanket that normally sits on the top of the couch, hiding a sizeable rip in the fabric, Baird notices that Sam has somehow ended up with his goggles around her neck. He finds the sight oddly charming, but he can't let her know or she'll be stealing his goggles every other day. Sam is draped across him like a second quilt, looking like the proverbial cat that swallowed the canary. She reaches around behind him, retrieving his glasses from the end table and placing them on his face. Her grin widens.

"So… the glasses."

"I'm not wearing them in public." _Despite how much you like them._ "I have an image to maintain."

She sighs wistfully. "I suppose you would look like a prat, walking around with glasses _and_ goggles."

He rolls his eyes and pushes her off the couch.


	24. Silver

It's a pretty simple decision, when she makes it.

One thing that Sam learned pretty quickly in the army was that she would have to be the one to cut her hair. Not that this was a new skill she had to acquire; growing up in Anvegad, barbers had been a luxury that few people could afford. Her mother had always been in charge of her haircuts until, when Sam was twelve and starting to notice other girls' hairstyles, Sam had insisted that she was grown-up enough to cut her own hair. She'd been doing it ever since.

Short hair is a necessity on the battlefield. Especially when fighting monsters. The shorter her hair, the harder it is to grab her, and the less likely she might get it caught on something. Practicality has ruled her life for the last sixteen years, but as Sam faces herself in the mirror, her old trusty pair of scissors at the ready, she finds that she doesn't really want to cut her hair. And for the first time in a long while, she won't be endangering her life by indulging her desire.

So she puts the scissors back and goes about her day.

 

* * *

 

It takes Baird about a month to notice. Honestly, she's surprised he picks up on it so quickly.

They are sitting on the couch in their tiny living room, each doing their own thing: Baird going over some of his notes, and Sam taking apart her Lancer and cleaning it. Suddenly Baird reaches an arm out, his hand coming to rest on the back of her neck. Sam smiles at the warmth of his skin, and puts down the bolt carrier she is working on.

"Yes, dear?" she asks, teasing, leaning back slightly into his palm.

"Your hair's getting long," he says absently, not looking up from his notebook.

"I'm growing it out," she responds warily, trying to read his tone. It's hard sometimes, trying to distinguish his generally uninterested tone from how he sounds when he's doing a damn good job of feigning indifference. He's maddening like that, but Sam's getting better—almost as good as Cole.

For a split second, she worries that he might not like her hair long. Of course, that doesn't really matter. She's doing this for _her_ , not for him. It's her decision and she wants a change. She's grown to like the feeling of her hair brushing lightly against the top of her shoulders, and pulling it back completely into a ponytail when she works on her bike has been handy.

"And?" she asks finally.

Baird doesn't answer; in fact, she's not even sure if he heard her. Instead his fingers begin to move, sliding up over the swell of her skull, stroking in a listless but pleasant pattern. Sam closes her eyes and loses herself in the feeling, biting back a moan when tingles break out over her scalp. He toys with her hair, pulling his fingers gently through it, and then goes back to his massage.

She doesn't know how much time has passed when Baird eventually—regrettably—stops. His hand moves from the back of her neck, fingers sweeping softly along her cheekbones, and pushes her hair back from her face. She glances over at him, somewhat annoyed to see that he's giving her an appraising look.

"I like it," he says, turning his attention back to his work. "It suits you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _From a colour psychology viewpoint, silver signals a time of reflection and a change of direction as it illuminates the way forward. It helps with the cleansing and releasing of mental, physical and emotional issues and blockages as it opens new doors and lights the way to the future._


	25. Thousand

Sometimes he wonders when she'll figure out who he really is. Or, rather, who he really isn't.

He doesn't entirely know why he opened his mouth on Azura. The words were out before he realized what was happening. And for whatever reason, Sam decided that he was worth the risk.

She's still mourning Dom. He wonders if she'll ever stop. He wonders if he wants her to stop. The thought of it makes him nervous. If she lets go of Dom, all her attention will be focused on him. And then she'll realize what he isn't.

He isn't Dom. Not even close.

Dom was kind, selfless, gentle, friendly, sensitive. He was a family man. He was a _good_ man. And while Baird has been growing and changing ever since he first got saddled with Delta Squad, he isn't changing _that_ much.

He is callous, demanding, detached, apathetic, selfish. His own childhood makes him never want to have children. He isn't a good person. If he recognizes this, it's only a matter of time before she sees it too.

Sometimes he feels like shit, knowing all this about himself and still allowing Sam to get attached. It'll hurt all the more when she discovers the horrible, glaringly obvious truth. He could tell her himself. He should end it before it gets too deep. He could force her away if he really wanted to.

But he's selfish—so incredibly selfish that he'll never say anything. He wants this, what the two of them have going now. If it lasts for a thousand days or a thousand years or a thousand seconds… it doesn't matter. He'll take every moment he can get with her.


	26. Winter

Baird wakes up because his nose is cold.

It's an odd sensation, which probably explains why he's slowly dragged out of a nice, deep sleep. At first, he's confused as to why he's woken up in the first place. But then his eyes begin to adjust to the dim, silver light of the moon slipping in through the gaps in the curtains, and he realises he can see his breath.

_Great._

The coldest night on record in Anvegad, and _of course_ their furnace craps out. What frigging luck. Baird attempts to roll over so he can slip out of the covers discreetly, and then he notices that Sam's limbs are wrapped out his body. As endearing as he would love to find this situation, Sam isn't a cuddler after she falls asleep. Sure, she likes to snuggle when they get into bed, but after she drifts off her body's natural reaction is to spread out and take up enough space as humanly possible without pushing him onto the floor. Clearly the cold has forced her sleeping body to seek out a heat source.

Still, he feels a little bad about having to wake her up.

"Sam." He nudges her gently. "Hey, come on."

Her face crinkles and she groans quietly; he has to bite back a smile as her eyes open. "Ugh, what?"

"Furnace is off. I'm gonna go fix it."

She takes a long blink. "And you woke me up to tell me this?"

"Well, you've kind of trapped me." He glances down at her arms around his torso.

"Oh." Even in the darkness of their bedroom, he swears he sees her cheeks colour. "Sorry."

Her arms slide away, leaving cold patches on his skin. Because he can't help himself, he leans in for a quick kiss. She obliges, then wraps the blankets around her tighter. "Don't take too long."

"You kidding? It's frigging freezing."

He throws the covers off, eliciting an annoyed shout from Sam, and grabs the sweater he threw on the end of the bed last night. Tugging it over his head, he dashes down the stairs, debating whether or not he should have grabbed socks. No matter—he'll have the furnace up and running in under five minutes; this would be the fourth time he'd fixed it. Always the same problem.

 

* * *

 

Baird doesn't know how much time has passed, but his fingers and toes are numb and his face is flushed with frustration. So it isn't the same problem it was the last three times. That doesn't mean he can't find a way to fix it. He's a mechanical genius, for god's sake. Even if it is three in the morning and he's losing the feeling in his fingers, this should be like picking which sound the cow makes on one of those plastic children's toys.

"Having fun?"

He jumps, fumbling the screwdriver in his frozen fingers. Sam is standing behind him, the duvet from the bed draped around her shoulders like a cape.

"I've almost got this."

"While your determination is a charming trait, I think it's time to admit defeat." Sam drops to her knees beside him, taking his freezing hands in hers—which are only marginally warmer. "I'll get a fire going."

"But I—"

She quiets him with an amused stare. "You can fix it in the morning, after a good night's rest where you don't lose your precious fingers to hypothermia."

" _Fine_ ," he grumbles, getting to his feet.

Sam still holds his hands, rubbing gently to get his cold blood flowing properly again. "Come on. I'll start the fire and it'll be a nice quiet night of not freezing to death."

"You're awfully cheery."

She shrugs. "Not my first cold night in Anvegad without heat. You either let it piss you off, or you have some fun."

"It's pissing me off."

"Shocking." She flashes him a smile.

When they arrive in the living room, Baird settles onto the couch and tries to hide his shivering. Sam, of course, notices and tosses him the blanket before she goes to work on building a fire. Part of Baird thinks he should protest and try to start the fire himself, but the more rational part of him knows that he's shit at it and Sam will get it going much faster than he ever could, and he really wants to be warm again. Sam drops to her knees in front of the fireplace and bends forward. Baird grins; even in baggy pyjama bottoms, she still has a fantastic butt.

"Stop ogling my ass," she says without even turning around. "It's distasteful."

He snorts, but doesn't stoop to dignify her comment with a response. Barely a minute passes before a small orange glow appears under the pile of wood that Sam has constructed. Sam jumps to her feet, practically buoyant with smug satisfaction, and darts over to the sofa. Baird shifts to make room for her and she slips under the duvet, snuggling up close to him. He closes his eyes and lets his head fall back and rest on the back of the couch.

"I'm almost a little disappointed that you're going to fix the heater," she murmurs.

"Hmm," he answers, keeping his eyes closed.

"Nights like this are nice."

He doesn't want to disagree, so he doesn't say anything.

 

* * *

 

The next morning, Baird takes a look at the furnace again. He fixes the issue that caused it to crap out the previous evening, and also notices an underlying problem. It isn't a death sentence for the furnace, but the heat will stop working occasionally if it gets cold enough.

After a moment of deliberation, Baird puts his tools away. He doesn't really mind spending a few more nights curled up in front of a fire with Sam nestled against him.


	27. Diamond

Some nights the nightmares make it hard to sleep. Stress dreams force Sam awake with a racing heartbeat and sweaty palms and the terrifying sensation that something is sitting beside her bed waiting for her. After she's calmed down, assured herself that she's safe and not about to be brutally murdered, it always takes a few minutes for her breathing to return to normal. On nights like this one, when she manages to wake up without jumping or screaming, she likes to watch Baird sleep. It assuages her. And no one is around to make her feel creepy or weird for watching him.

Baird lies on his side facing her, his mouth popped open slightly. The sound of his breathing—heavy and deep, but not quite a snore—fills the quiet of the bedroom. It was a warm evening, as evidenced by his sleeping shirtless; his bare arms are above the covers, reaching towards her slightly. He looks a few years younger in slumber, probably because the frown lines around his face disappear when he's completely relaxed. It's a sight she doesn't get to see very often when he's awake; usually his mouth is twisted in a grimace or a cynical smile. _Peaceful_ looks good on him.

His eyelashes flutter, and she wonders idly what he's dreaming about.

Her fingers brush lightly over the contours of his arms. He must feel something; grunting softly, he moves closer. A grin spreads across her face. She knows the pattern of his scars by heart. Sixteen years of war have left plenty of pale white lines zigzagging across his body. _Out of all the things my hands have held, the best by far is you._ She thinks she might have read that in a poetry book somewhere (not that she'd ever admit to reading poetry), or heard it in a song back when they used to play music on the radio. He'd give her shit for being so mushy if he was awake, and she would know it was only because he didn't know how to deal with those feelings quite yet.

Sometimes it still seems surreal to her, like this just an overlong fever dream that she'll eventually wake from. Lying here in bed next to him, no longer always worrying about emergence holes in the back of her mind… It seems too good to be true. A small part of her keeps waiting for the other shoe to drop, for something awful to explode this precious, cautious life they've been building together. But the rest of her firmly believes that they can survive anything now. They have been tried and tested, together and apart, refined through fire.

It's just like a diamond. You put something ordinary under enough pressure for long enough, and it either breaks… or turns into something beautiful and indestructible.


	28. Simple

Before, things would have been easy.

He would have taken her out for dinner at the Segarra. The place had been nice enough, yeah, with high ceilings and chandeliers and crystal goblets and private little booths for each couple, but it was still stupidly expensive. Not that he would ever gripe about the price. In fact, he wouldn't even look at the menu. He'd just tell her that she could order whatever she fancied, including desert.

The _maître d'_ would come by and greet him by name, offer up the best vintage of the evening, maybe even compliment his date. Then they would order and no one would bother them for the rest of the night. He wouldn't even have to pay; it went straight on to the Baird family tab. He loved that, using his father's money to get laid. Two birds with one stone.

But things aren't that simple anymore.

For one, the grubs had torn the Segarra apart in the early years of the war. And Sam isn't the type of woman who would drop her panties when he threw money around—even if he still had money. No, she'd grown up with food shortages and food riots. If he'd met her sixteen, seventeen years ago, she would have found him a spoiled little rich boy, arrogant and selfish. And he really hasn't changed all that much in nearly two decades.

So, as grand (if insincere) gestures are unavailable to him, Baird settles for making the little things count.

 

* * *

 

There are mornings when, despite his best efforts, he can't get Sam to wake up in time for her shift. He sighs, heads downstairs to the kitchen, and brews the disgusting instant coffee that Gears have been living with since E-Day. Five minutes before Sam is supposed to start, he hears her finally wake with a loud "Bloody _hell!_ " As she comes dashing down the stairs, Baird holds out a travel mug filled with coffee. Sam grabs it and bolts out the door, still swearing. The door has barely banged shut before she bursts back in, hurrying over to plant a quick kiss on his cheek, and then she's gone again.

And if Baird smiles to himself, no one's around to see it.

 

* * *

 

There are afternoons when they both have the day off, which they usually spend lounging in the living room. Baird sits on the couch, pouring over the precious few textbooks he's managed to convince Hoffman to loan him, while Sam flips through an old, dog-eared paperback. She's stretched out, her legs flung lazily over his thighs, and she hums every so often as she turns a page. Baird tries to keep his eyes on his own book, but he keeps sneaking glances at her. She looks relaxed, content, like this is the most natural thing in the world.

And if Baird waits a few minutes longer than he normally would to get up and go to the bathroom, no one's any the wiser.

 

* * *

 

There are evenings when, true to his word, Baird attempts to teach Sam how to cook. Baird had taught himself out of necessity; his father the magistrate had been a busy man and kept odd hours, and there was no way in hell that his mother would go anywhere near the kitchen. Baird learned from watching the staff, so when he was hungry and no one was around he could actually do something about it.

It's slow going as Sam gets easily frustrated when things go wrong, so Baird learns to pick the meals carefully. Tonight he's showing her how to make a slightly fancier version of the basic egg-on-toast. Sam finds the idea of breakfast for dinner absolutely enchanting, which Baird attributes to growing up with a somewhat overbearing mother. They're going to toast buttered slices of bread in a frying pan; the "fancy" part comes from cutting a hole in the centre of the bread and then cooking the egg inside of it. Baird makes a circular hole and places both pieces in the pan. He looks over at Sam and sees that she's cut her hole in the shape of a heart. She smirks at him as he rolls his eyes, but he feels a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

He expects Sam to go back to making the toast; instead she keeps her eyes on him, and even though he's not looking directly at her he knows what expression she has on her face, and warmth begins to pool in his belly.

And if the toast is blackened and burnt later, well, neither of them seems to mind too much.


	29. Letters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I listened to [Jet Lag](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ntSBKPkk4m4) on repeat while writing this.

_Corporal S. Byrne_  
_Anvil Gate COG garrison_  
_Anvegad, Kashkur_

_2 Heat 17 A.E._

_Sergeant D. S. Baird_  
_Port Farrall COG outpost & temporary civilian housing_  
_Tyrus Coast_

_Hey asshole._

_Three months is a hell of a long time to go without talking. I hear Reid doesn't like anyone using the long-range radios for personal communications, and I know you're not going to write first. You and Cole had better appreciate the stuff you have back here; I hear you bitching about it enough. Although, the water heater was on the fritz this morning. Again. You told me you'd fixed it for good. Had to get Rossi to come over and check it out._

_I would warn you about having too much fun, but I trust Cole to keep you in check. Him, and the mountain of repairs that Reid has no doubt been saving for you. I'd see if I could get some leave to come visit, but Stacker's gang is acting up again and Hoffman's getting antsy. I don't think it's anything worth worrying over, but he is the colonel. Predecessors to Stacker's little troupe were around when I was a kid but they were never much of a threat. Though these guys do seem a bit ballsier._

_Other than that, nothing much to report. You better write back or there'll be hell to pay at the end of Bloom. Sorotki and Mitchell are making a trip out tomorrow so I'm giving them this letter. I know they're staying for a week, so you have plenty of time to cobble together one or two lines._

Sam puts down her pencil and glances over what she has written. It's maybe shorter than she would like, but given who the recipient is, it's better to err on the side of brevity. She isn't sure how he will react to getting a letter; they hadn't really discussed communication before he left and she doesn't know if this will somehow inadvertently cross one of Baird's silently established boundaries.

Baird had seemed reluctant to go to Port Farrall, especially for so long. But Major Reid insisted that they needed help. The old temporary capital had taken a beating during the Lambent pandemic, so it was hardly an ideal choice to house the survivors of _Sovereign_. However, there hadn't really been another option. The Stranded weren't exactly going to welcome COG civvies with open arms, and there wasn't anywhere else with the infrastructure needed to support a few thousand people. Reid had more or less commandeered the sappers for the past year, but progress was still slow. Baird and Cole shipped out with about thirty other Gears who had some experience with construction or repairs to help out with some of the more urgent tasks.

Sam debates putting something dirty in the letter, just to drive him nuts, but she doesn't know if anyone else will read it before Baird. There's always next time. She copies the address onto the front of a yellowed envelope and slips the paper inside. The glue seal has long since decayed, so she hopes Sorotki isn't the nosy type.

 

* * *

 

_Sergeant D. S. Baird_  
_Port Farrall COG outpost & temporary civilian housing_  
_Tyrus Coast_

_13 Heat 17 A.E._

_Corporal S. Byrne_  
_Anvil Gate COG garrison_  
_Anvegad, Kashkur_

" _Hey asshole"? Mitchell hands me this letter, says it's from you, and I'm expecting it to be full of pining and whinging, and you start it with "hey asshole"? Real sweet of you, Sam. Really makes me want to write back. Although I guess I am writing, so congratulations. You win._

_I swear that Reid has been saving all the major repairs for me. Half the shit here doesn't work and the other half is liable to break down any minute. He does realize I'm a mechanic, not a miracle worker, right? I know I'm the best the COG's got, but someone could at least try and fix stuff instead of waiting for me to show up and save the day._

_Did you really have to get Rossi to come over and fix the water heater? You couldn't have asked Dizzy? Or, better yet, waited until I got back? Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone._

The floorboard creaks behind him and Baird nearly jumps out of his skin. He turns around furiously, completely unsurprised to see Cole standing directly behind him. How the hell did his friend get so close without him noticing?

"A little short, don'tcha think?" Cole remarks.

"Didn't anyone ever teach you it's rude to read over someone's shoulder?" Baird folds up his letter hastily and shoves it in his pocket.

"Better hurry or you'll miss it."

"Miss what?"

"KR-Eight Zero's taking off in a couple minutes. Don't you have something you want to deliver?"

Baird curses and jumps to his feet.

 

* * *

 

_Corporal S. Byrne_  
_Anvil Gate COG garrison_  
_Anvegad, Kashkur_

_17 Heat 17 A.E._

_Sergeant D. S. Baird_  
_Port Farrall COG outpost & temporary civilian housing_  
_Tyrus Coast_

_Do I detect a hint of jealousy? Barber looked pretty amused when he handed over your letter (I'm impressed you wrote more than "I'm good", by the way), and he said you seemed annoyed when you gave it to him. What are Gettner and Barber doing here, anyway? I thought Sorotki and Mitchell were coming back, not staying. They did come via Azura and bring some delicacies, which was nice. There's a six-pack in the fridge now. I'll try to resist drinking it until you get back._

_I'd say more, but Anya just told me that Gettner's heading out tonight and she'll hit Port Farrall before she comes back this way. Anya and I are going out tonight for some girl time. Marcus has been putting in extra shifts to make up for you and Cole being gone, so we're both feeling a little neglected. I wonder if we can institute some sort of ladies night._

_Oh, and you don't need to worry about Rossi. I had him and his girlfriend over for dinner to say thanks, and they don't seem like the type of people who'd be up for a threesome. So I decided not to ask._

 

* * *

 

_Sergeant D. S. Baird_  
_Port Farrall COG outpost & temporary civilian housing_  
_Tyrus Coast_

_25 Heat 17 A.E._

_Corporal S. Byrne_  
_Anvil Gate COG garrison_  
_Anvegad, Kashkur_

_You think you're hilarious, don't you? With any other girl I wouldn't worry, but sometimes I just don't know with you._

_Gettner bribed Sorotki to switch assignments with her. Reid was driving her crazy. To be fair, he's driving everyone a little nuts. Except Cole, but that's nothing new. The man has an inexhaustible supply of goodwill. I think Mitchell's getting bored here. Apparently your Stranded are bigger dicks than ours. The gangs around here are pretty tame and, shockingly, they seem to actually appreciate that we wiped out the Locust and the Lambent for good. Go figure. The Kashkuri gangs could learn a lesson in courtesy from these guys._

_It's finally starting to warm up here, thank god. I forgot how dismal the winter was here. Weird to think that it's been two years since we set up that shantytown after Jacinto sank. Too bad it hasn't improved much since then._

 

* * *

 

_Corporal S. Byrne_  
_Anvil Gate COG garrison_  
_Anvegad, Kashkur_

_3 Rise 17 A.E._

_Sergeant D. S. Baird_  
_Port Farrall COG outpost & temporary civilian housing_  
_Tyrus Coast_

_It's good to hear that your Stranded aren't armed to the teeth and storming the barricades. I won't admit to worrying about you, but my imagination can get the better of me sometimes. Stacker's group has been more active over the past week. At least we've still got a good relationship with the other Stranded camps in the area. If anything, they seem to be going out of their way to be accommodating just to show they aren't aligned with Stacker._

_Hoffman said he wants to try one last bargaining attempt. We've got a good farm going and almost exclusive access to the oil refinery. Maybe we can bribe Stacker into backing off, but I doubt it. Assholes like these get off on power and intimidating a COG garrison is impressive in his mind. Anyway, Hoffman wants me on the peace team. Guess he figures my mixed blood might endear me to them or something. I won't hold my breath._

_I have to admit, I'm starting to miss Cole's laugh. It's abnormally quite in the mess and the bar without him joking around and laughing and embarrassing you. I miss the way your face gets all red when you get flustered. Hell, sometimes I think I might even miss your sass. Crazy, isn't it?_

Sam stares at the final paragraph, deliberating. She knows how uncomfortable obvious signs of affection make Baird, but this seems pretty watered down. There is so much more she wants to say. Like how, even though it's only been a month, she hates waking up alone in bed. How she misses grabbing coffee together in the morning and chatting until they have to part ways for the day. How she misses bumping into him around the fort and exchanging good-natured barbs. How she especially misses burying her fingers in his hair and the feeling of his mouth against her neck.

She figures she's feeling especially sentimental because of the negotiations that they are going to attempt sometime within the next week. A nervous, queasy sensation is growing in her gut. She usually feels this way before going on assignment; a healthy dose of unease is good to keep her on her toes. Part of her wishes she could talk to Baird, hear his voice, get him to calm her down without him realizing it. But she also knows that it's pointless to pine. She'll never get permission from Reid for a personal call.

Getting up from her desk, she walks over to her bed and flops down on it. She needs sleep before tomorrow. Gettner is taking off at dawn and Sam wants her letter on the Raven.

 

* * *

 

**Port Farrall, Tyrus Coast. 7 Rise 17 A.E.**

Baird finds Sorotki in the mess, halfway through a stack of pancakes. He's relieved to see that KR-239's pilot hasn't left for Kashkur yet; he can only imagine Sam's scathing letter if the Raven showed up without anything from him onboard.

"Hey Sorotki, when are you taking off?"

The lieutenant turns around and gives him a quizzical look. "You haven't heard?"

"Heard what?"

"We've got a no-fly order over Anvil Gate and the surrounding area."

The bottom drops out of Baird's stomach. "What? Why?"

Sorotki shrugs, far too nonchalant for Baird's liking. "Don't really know. Reid's not talking. The order only came in an hour ago."

Baird keeps his expression neutral, unwilling to panic in front of someone other than Cole. Sorotki doesn't seem too concerned about the whole thing and Baird would love to believe that there's no reason to worry, but Sam's last letter weights heavily in his mind. She had mentioned "talking" to the problematic Stranded gang. If something happened…

No, someone would have told him. He can go to Reid; Sorotki doesn't have any information because maybe he hadn't asked. Baird leaves the mess attempting to feel hopeful, but he was never terribly good at being optimistic.

Unfortunately, Major Dickwad doesn't go along with Baird's plan. Baird storms out of Reid's office seething. All of his questions had been shut down. Reid refused to tell him anything. He'd had to leave before he threw the obnoxious desk lamp at the major's head.

He runs into Cole as he's stomping back to his quarters. He's about to let loose and vent all his frustrations when he catches the look on Cole's face.

"What?" he asks, dreading the answer.

"I tried to find you earlier. I guess you already heard about what happened at Anvil Gate."

"I heard that something happened. Fucking Reid refused to elaborate."

Cole sighs. "Damn. I can't find anyone who knows what's going on either. But… they posted a list of injured a couple minutes ago."

Baird knows what's coming before Cole can tell him. "Sam's on it."

"Yeah man. I'm sorry."

He tries to ignore the way he reacts to the news. His insides curl into a tight, anxious knot and his heart feels like a massive weight in his chest. She's fine, she's fine, she's fine, he repeats in his head. Except she isn't.

"Hey man, it's just a list of injuries. It can't be that serious."

Baird nods numbly, mostly to appease Cole. Injured could be anything from a scratch on the cheek to lying comatose in a hospital bed. Reid won't talk, nobody knows anything—there's nothing he can do except wait.

The rest of the day passes painfully slowly. He barely sleeps that night. Sam's absence in the bed has never been more noticeable. In the morning, he wakes up determined. There _must_ be a way to get around the communications ban, and he's going to figure it out if it kills him.

 

* * *

 

_Corporal S. Byrne_  
_Anvil Gate COG garrison_  
_Anvegad, Kashkur_

_10 Rise 17 A.E._

_Sergeant D. S. Baird_  
_Port Farrall COG outpost & temporary civilian housing_  
_Tyrus Coast_

_I haven't been able to get a letter out before now. You've probably heard what happened, but I'll give you some details. We_

Sam's tac-com crackles in her ear. She puts down her pencil and waits for the message.

"Hey, it's Mathieson. You've got a call from Royston Sharle waiting in the private comms booth. He said it was urgent."

Sharle? Sam tries to figure out what the Emergency Management Chief could possibly want to talk to her about. "Did he say why?"

"No, just that he wanted you on the line now. You'd better hurry."

Perplexed, Sam heads to the comms building. It's slow going with the crutches, which she's still getting used to, but she makes it there eventually. Hoffman holds the door to the private room open for her, a strange expression on his face. He almost looks amused.

Sam eases herself into the wooden chair, grateful to be off her feet. On the desk in front of her is the long-range radio, usually reserved for private communication between Hoffman, Major Reid, and Major McLintock at Azura. She picks up the mouthpiece. "Corporal Byrne here. What did you want to talk with me about, sir?"

There is a burst of static before a voice answers. And it isn't Royston Sharle. _"Nice of you to let me know you're alive."_

"Baird?" Her heart swells at hearing him again for the first time in weeks. "What's going on? Mathieson said it was Sharle."

" _He and Hoffman are covering for me."_ Baird does _not_ sound happy. _"What the hell are you playing at? I hear that some bad shit went down at Anvil Gate and that there were people injured. No letter from you, though. No damn radio call either."_

Sam has to stifle a snort. _That_ is why he's so mad? "Look, I put in a request for a personal communication but it was denied. The Ravens aren't flying here either, just in case. So how exactly did you expect me to contact you?"

" _Gee, we're talking now. Wasn't so hard."_

She's trying to enjoy actually talking with him, but Baird's pissy attitude is starting to annoy her. "You got the broad details. No one died. What's up with you?"

" _Are you okay?"_

Sam's mildly surprised at his tone. If she didn't know any better, she might have thought he actually sounds concerned. "I broke my leg. It's not a bad fracture, though. The cast should be off before you get back."

There is silence on the other end for some time. Sam starts to wonder if the connection has broken, but then: _"Tell me what happened. Reid says it's on a need-to-know basis."_

"Not much to tell, really. We figured Stacker might try something and he did. Small ambush, nothing we couldn't handle. The traps were a different story. A few people got caught in them, myself included, but it didn't slow us down. Subdued the gang and that was that." Sam elects to leave out some of the details, like how the pit she had fallen into had spikes—albeit poorly placed—at the bottom; and how she cracked her head on a rock and Rossi had been the one to carry her, bridal style, back to the fort. "It was no big thing. And you know that if anything really bad had happened, Hoffman or Marcus would have told you."

" _Yeah, I know, it's just…"_ She hears him sigh, half a world away. _"There was a list of injuries that went around and your name was on it, and I just…"_

She can't really fault him for freaking out. She can imagine, had the situation been reversed, going out of her mind with worry, waiting for any piece of news and being thwarted at every turn. "Hey. I'm fine, okay?"

" _Yeah. You drive me crazy, you know that?"_

She laughs. This is finally turning into a normal conversation. "In a good way or a bad way?"

" _Both. Listen, I—ah, shit. Reid's coming. He'll probably keep me here an extra month if he catches me."_

Sam tries to keep the disappointment out of her voice. "Better get going then. You'll be back soon enough."

" _Yeah, I'll see you—Yes, sir, just finishing up with Hoffman. No, I've got time—"_

There's a click and the static of the connection disappears. Sam sits back in her chair—she hadn't realized she'd been leaning forward—and places the mouthpiece on the table. She doesn't know how to feel. Maybe relieved and happy about the unexpected call… touched that he was worried enough, cared enough, to go around Reid's back to check in with her. But now those last six weeks stretch in front of her, seeming impossibly long. She remembers the calendar back in her quarters with the countdown on it. The numbers are getting smaller. Soon they'll be in the single digits.

She reaches for her crutches and gets back on her feet. Dizzy has the day off. Maybe she can convince him to fry up some breakfast.

 

* * *

 

_Sergeant D. S. Baird_  
_Port Farrall COG outpost & temporary civilian housing_  
_Tyrus Coast_

_12 Rise 17 A.E._

_Corproal S. Byrne_  
_Anvil Gate COG garrison_  
_Anvegad, Kashkur_

_Maybe Cole's onto something, writing letters to his mother. It's easier to write than it is to talk, at least for me. I've got more time to think about the right words, instead of blurting out something stupid. Anyway. I'm sorry if I snapped at you. I didn't mean to. But then again, I don't mean to do a lot of things._

_You've got to know why I freaked out. I know I don't say it a lot. Directly, I mean. But you've heard me say it a dozen different ways. I'm glad you're okay. Beyond glad. I'm not used to this, caring so much about someone and not being around them. You can handle yourself, I know that, but I'd just be able to handle it better if I could actually see you. Talk to you. Hold you._

_Shit, this is getting mushy. But if I'm in this territory anyway, I might as well see it through. For some stupid reason, I'm in love with you. And not being able to do anything when you're in trouble scares the hell out of me. So there it is._

_I don't even know why I'm writing this. There's no way I can send it._

Feeling mildly guilty, Baird crumples up the piece of paper in front of him and tosses it to the side. He can write something else later, something better that won't embarrass the hell out of him. Cole doesn't look up from the bed, where he lies on his back reading a decade-old sports magazine.

"I'm going to get something to eat." Baird stands up. "You coming?"

"Yeah, I'll catch up. I just want to finish this article."

As soon as Baird leaves the room, Cole puts the magazine down. Making sure his friend won't re-enter unexpectedly, he walks over to the desk where Baird had been writing. Cole grabs the scrunched up ball of paper and unfolds it. He attempts to smooth it out as best he can. A smile spreads across his face as he reads over it. Checking once again that no one is watching, he tucks the letter into his pocket, and then heads off after Baird.

 

* * *

 

_Sammy –_

_He was too self-conscious to send this, but I figured it'd be good if you know what's going on in his head. Take care of that leg._

_\- Cole_

After Sam reads the letter, she almost feels dizzy, like she's woken suddenly from a dream and still can't quite get a grip on reality. It's Baird's handwriting all right. Of course, Cole would never write her a fake letter from her boyfriend, but at first that seemed like the most likely explanation.

_For some stupid reason, I'm in love with you._

Baird has never said those words out loud, and Sam often holds back because she knows it makes him uncomfortable. They do love each other, there's no doubt about that, it just goes unsaid most of the time. She can sense it when he looks at her, when his jokes are lighter than usual, when he inserts himself into her personal space without even thinking about it. But for some reason having it written out in his handwriting suddenly seems important.

_I'm in love with you._

She knows if she ever tries to talk to him about it, he'll shrug it off or change the subject. That doesn't bother her; there is an understanding between them. So she gently folds up the letter and tucks it away in a drawer, a treasure to be unexpectedly rediscovered one day when she needs it most.

 

* * *

 

**Anvil Gate, Kashkur. 28 Bloom 17 A.E.**

Baird knows they're getting close when he begins to recognize the scenery. KR-239 has been flying for hours. Baird has a new respect for Sorotki and Mitchell and all the Raven crews, making these long trips between COG outposts numerous times a week. His lower back aches and he can't wait to stand up again. Cole's looking queasy beside him; his friend is probably even more eager than he is to get back on solid ground.

Anvil Gate finally comes into view. As they get closer to the fort Baird's heart rate speeds up. He wonders if Sam will be waiting for him near the landing zone. It's been way too long since he's seen her. Even though he feels terrible about it, he's almost a little glad she has a broken leg. That means she won't be forced out on patrol while he's on his downtime. Of course, he can't seem too happy to be back, or Sam will lord it over him for weeks.

The Raven begins to land and Baird can't stop himself from scanning the area, looking for a woman with crutches. But he's either at the wrong angle to see her or she isn't there. He tries to ignore the disappointment creeping in on his good mood. It doesn't matter; he can find her easy enough. She can't move around that much with a busted leg.

KR-239 sets down and Cole hops off almost instantly. He walks quickly towards the barracks, either to lie down or throw up. Once again, Baird is grateful he doesn't suffer from motion sickness. He slings his kit bag over his shoulder and jumps down to the ground. The LZ is crowded; it's near dinnertime, so civvies and Gears are moving around the courtyard surrounding the Raven. It's far too crowded for Baird's liking. He begins making his way through the throngs of people, heading for the mess in hopes of finding a quiet place to grab something to eat.

About halfway across the grass, Baird has the distinct feeling that someone is watching him. He turns his head casually, ready to berate whoever is coming for him, probably wanting him to fix something a mere five seconds after he got back. However, as his eyes sweep across the crowd, he finds himself looking at a familiar figure.

Sam is only using one crutch now and her leg isn't in a cast. His stomach still lurches at the sight of her; clearly she's not putting all of her weight on the injured leg. He desperately wants to get her off her feet. Maybe onto a bed…

They stare at each other for a few seconds before Baird decides that it doesn't matter if he seems too eager. He closes the distance between them before she's taken two slow steps. Grinning up at him, Sam pulls him in for a hug. She stumbles a bit, hampered by her crutch, but steadies herself against his chest. Her scent washes over him, a unique mix of gasoline, gunpowder and vanilla.

He can't help himself; taking her chin with one hand, he tips her face up. Before she can tease him, he presses his mouth to hers. He meant for it to be a quick peck but something takes hold of him, and suddenly he's pulling her closer, kissing her deeper. The surroundings melt away. Her lips are soft and warm and familiar, and he knew that he missed her but he hadn't realized how much until this moment. Normally he'd be embarrassed to be this affectionate in public, but three months apart with only black scrawls on pieces of paper have virtually destroyed his barriers.

When he pulls away at last, he can't help but chuckle at her expression. She looks bewildered, but pleasantly surprised. He doesn't blame her; he doesn't really know where that came from himself.

"Miss me?" she asks, breathless.

He shrugs. "Only a little." He keeps his arms wrapped around her.

She rolls her eyes and swats playfully at his shoulder. "Liar."

He doesn't deny it.


	30. Future

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, this chapter is most definitely rated **E for Explicit**. I just didn't feel like bumping the rating of the whole collection for the last little bit.
> 
> So. _Mature content ho!_

* * *

 

He's been living with Sam long enough that the thrill and apprehension he once felt upon entering her house— _their_ house—has worn off. However, Baird is still surprised sometimes, when the pleasant monotony of this new life of his slips away, and he is confronted with just how marvellous things are now.

Baird has had an incredibly tiring day. Foolishly, he had underestimated the amount of work that would be waiting for him when he returned to Anvegad from his three-month transfer to Port Farrall. Under Major Reid, he'd been run ragged, called in for the simplest of jobs, always returning to his bunk utterly exhausted. And really, Anvil Gate isn't in much better shape than Port Farrall. His second day back at the garrison, Hoffman had called him in for a meeting and, almost apologetically, handed him a lengthy to-do list. He's been back for almost two weeks now, and he feels like he's barely had time to see Sam—which is ridiculous, considering that they live together.

He slumps in the front door, mildly surprised to find Sam down in the kitchen. She looks up when the door bangs shut and beams at him.

"Hey stranger."

"Hey yourself." He drops his kitbag on the ground and kicks his boots off. "What are you doing?"

"Don't worry; I'm not cooking without your supervision." Sam ducks behind the counter briefly, reappearing with a box of something that looks suspiciously like cola.

"Holy shit," Baird breathes. He hasn't had soda in almost five years; his mouth is starting to water just thinking about it. "How the hell did you—?"

"Mitchell owed me a favour after that tattoo I gave him last week. He brought it in from Azura this morning."

Baird realises with a pang that he hadn't known about the tattoo, but pushes past it. "God, you're amazing."

"Tell me something I don't know," she says, smile widening. "Since you look ready to drop, why don't you put your feet up and I'll make us some drinks."

A rum and cola. When was the last time he'd had one? He tries to think as he trudges into the living room, but he can't remember. Just as he's about to flop onto the couch, he catches sight of the throw rug underneath the table: it's a ratty old thing, the pattern almost completely faded, but Sam had spotted it when they were trading with the local Stranded and _insisted_ that they needed it, and Baird hadn't the heart to argue with her. And it's stupid, it's really stupid, but they got it the day before Baird left for Azura and he's been so busy since he got back that this is the first time he's really noticed it. A frigging _carpet_ has him frozen in place. Why?

Because, _shit_ , it's just so—so _domestic_ and everyday that Baird can't believe this is his life now. His tools are spread out all over the living room, mingling with parts from Sam's sniper rifle and her books that he'd never be caught reading; his notes are in a pile beside the couch, an old sweater of his that she's stolen is draped over a chair; Sam is humming behind him in the kitchen, searching one of the cupboards for rum; and it hits him that _this is it._ He's wanted this for so long, ever since they'd first come to Anvil Gate a year ago and there were all these _feelings_ that he didn't know what to do with except _hope_ , in some vague, offhanded way. And now he has it. More than he ever thought possible.

"Now where did I put that bloody rum?" Sam grumbles to herself, abandoning the top cupboard to crouch down and rummage around underneath the counter.

Before he even knows what he's doing, he blurts out:

"I am so frigging in love with you."

The casual, relaxed atmosphere changes in an instant. Sam goes completely rigid and Baird tenses up too, embarrassed and surprised by his uncharacteristic lack of self-control. Then Sam springs to her feet, completely forgetting about the open cupboard door above her head. She slams into it with an audible, splintering crack that makes Baird wince. Her eyes go wide—with shock or pain, Baird's not sure, it happens too fast—and she collapses out of his line of sight.

"Fucking _hell_ , what did you _do_?" he yells, hurrying into the kitchen. "You frigging stupid—"

He stops dead in his tracks when he sees Sam on the floor: she's lying in a crumpled pile, eyes closed, completely still. Panic flares up in his chest, white and burning, and he drops to his knees.

"Sam?" He reaches out to touch her but quickly stops himself. If she hit her head hard enough to knock herself unconscious she could have a spinal cord injury, and if that's the case then moving her would be extremely fucking bad. He presses a finger to his ear, ready to radio the infirmary—

"Nngh."

Sam blinks a couple of times and moves her head before Baird can tell her to stay still. She looks around, dazed, until her eyes settle on his face. Then she breaks out in a massive grin that Baird finds entirely inappropriate for this situation.

"You said you love me," she says in a singsong tone.

He huffs. "See if I do again, if you're gonna knock yourself out."

She pushes herself up onto her elbows, then cringes. "Ow."

"Yeah, it generally hurts when you…" He trails off as Sam gingerly feels the back of her head, and her hand comes away bloody. There's not enough blood for it to be an emergency but the sight of it still sends his pulse skyrocketing. "Oh, god _damn_ it. Get up, I'm taking you to Hayman."

He helps her to her feet, his stomach somersaulting when Sam sways uneasily. Wrapping his arm firmly around her shoulders to steady her, Baird begins steering her towards the door, but Sam apparently has other ideas. Her hands are suddenly grasping his face, pulling him down to her height, and she slams their mouths together and kisses him furiously.

" _Hayman_ ," Baird gasps, pulling away. "You idiot, you need to see—"

"Shut _up_ ," she hisses, and kisses him again. "Just let me savour this moment."

Baird pushes her back, but keeps hold of her in case she loses her balance. "Savour it later, your frigging _head is bleeding_ —"

"You're really killing the mood," Sam says, still sounding a little stunned—but somehow Baird doesn't think it's a result of the head trauma.

"I don't give a flying fuck, I need to get you to the doc so she can take a look at your thick skull! You're going to need stitches, you moron."

 

* * *

 

Hayman gives them a decidedly icy look as they stumble into the infirmary, as if they've somehow interrupted her doing something very busy, despite the fact that they are the only people in the room. Baird finds it rather annoying as this is generally where people come when they've injured themselves.

"Somehow I imagine it's your girlfriend that requires my immediate attention." The doctor walks towards them, eyeing Sam critically. "Again."

"However did you guess?" Baird asks dryly, mostly for Sam's benefit. She still hasn't quite managed to use her feet properly since she nearly caved her head in. And to think, she only stopped using her crutches a few days ago.

Hayman leads Sam to the nearest cot. "What happened?"

"She slammed her head into a cabinet door pretty hard," Baird answers, crossing his arms and leaning back against the bed. "Her head's bleeding."

Taking Sam's head in her hands (a little rough for Baird's liking), Hayman parts the dark hair to get a better look at the wound. She glares at it for a couple seconds, as if expecting it to magically heal under her withering stare.

"Did you lose consciousness?" Hayman asks Sam, with absolutely none of the bedside manner that Baird has come to expect from Harua Tak.

"Only for a few seconds," Baird says.

Hayman shoots him a dark look before turning back to Sam; Baird bristles, but lets it go. If there's one person he doesn't want to get in a verbal sparring match with, it's Isabel Maryon-Hayman.

"Where are we?" Hayman asks. The question is obviously directed at Sam, and this time Baird keeps his mouth shut.

"The hospital at Anvil Gate," Sam says. She pauses for a second and then hastily adds, "Kashkur."

"What were you doing before the incident?"

Baird feels his face go beet red, but Sam keeps her composure. "I was at home."

"Can you repeat the months of the year in reverse order?"

"Thaw, Brume, Frost, Bounty, Harvest, Bloom, Rise, Heat, Gale, Storm," Sam rattles off without any hesitation. Then she grins at Baird like she's looking for approval; he indulges her with a weak smile.

Hayman holds a finger up in front of Sam's face. "I want you to touch my finger and then the tip of your nose as quickly as possible."

Sam does as she's asked, missing the tip of her nose by only a few millimetres. Hayman takes a step back, looking Sam up and down again. "It's a concussion, but a minor one. And the head wound will require stitches. She'll be fine, but you'll have to stay with her for the next fifty-two hours to monitor her."

Then Hayman whisks out of the room without any explanation, presumably to go get what she needs to stitch Sam's head back up. Baird glares at the doctor's back as she leaves, remembering how even Dom with all his goodwill had considered Hayman a tough bitch.

"You _love_ me," Sam says suddenly, the unexpected noise making Baird flinch. He glances at her and is frustrated to see that she's smirking like an idiot despite the pain she must be in.

"You knew that," he mutters. "Didn't have to crack your skull open just 'cause I said it."

Sam opens her mouth to say something else that will probably make him blush like a schoolgirl, but Hayman reappears. The doctor practically storms over to Sam and places the suturing kit on the cot.

"We don't have enough drugs to spare on clumsy idiots, so you'll be doing this without painkillers."

Sam nods, trying to put on a brave face, but Baird notices the way her brow furrows slightly and how she subtly clenches her fists. Sighing, Baird turns his body towards her and grabs her hands. She gives him an anxious smile and he gives her a reassuring squeeze. Then Hayman gets to work.

As Baird watches the doctor clean and stitch Sam's wound, he does his best to avoid thinking about the catalyst for Sam bashing her head and knocking herself out. Of course, in attempting not to think about it, it's all he _can_ think about. And his stomach sinks as he wonders, _Had she honestly been surprised?_ They've been together for about a year now, and as Baird thinks back he realizes that it's mostly because of Sam's effort. He'd had feelings for her for a while, but it was _Sam_ who had first acted on hers. Sam had asked him to kiss her on that dark night in the garage, Sam had asked him to move in with her, Sam had taken all the first steps. He'd been there all along, sure, but he hovered just far enough away that she always had to reach out and pull him closer.

So really, if Sam had been so shocked by his verbal confession, Baird wouldn't blame her at all.

Hayman pulls the surgical thread tight and Sam sucks in a pained breath, gripping Baird's hand forcefully. This snaps him out of his introspection, and he spends the rest of the time in the infirmary concentrating on how angry he is that Sam's hurt—even if she did it to herself.

 

* * *

 

The sun is just starting to go down as they return to the house. Sam is sporting a lovely bandage on the back of her head and an annoyed expression from being denied drugs to take home. Normally Baird would be struggling to stop himself from laughing at her expense, but he hasn't been feeling the greatest since the infirmary. Ironic.

Sam drags him up to the bedroom, spouting some nonsense about how tiring getting stitches is, but the twinkle in her eyes tells Baird that she wants to finish what she attempted to start after giving herself a concussion. She pushes him back onto the bed and he opens his mouth to make a quip about how pain apparently turns her on, but the mock-insult dies in his throat. He shuts his mouth, blinks a few times, then opens it again.

"Did you really not know?" he asks. He meant to sound generally inquisitive, but instead it comes out quiet and unsure and just a little bit scared. _Oh hell_ , he thinks.

The sly smile slips from Sam's face, replaced by a tender look of affection. "Don't be daft. Of course I knew."

"But you…" Baird gestures wildly, hoping the motion will draw her eyes away from his face. It doesn't.

"You just surprised me, that's all. I'd gotten used to the idea that you'd never—"

His face must change, because her eyes go soft and she reaches out to palm his jaw. "Don't. I realised a long time ago that I didn't need you to say it out loud because you tell me a dozen different ways every day."

He can't help but scoff derisively at that. "Really? Do tell."

"You really don't know, do you?" She laughs softly, although Baird fails to see what's so funny. "You moved in with me. You faced the wrath of Major Reid just to check up on me. You took a _bullet_ for me. You yell at me when I get hurt, you make me coffee in the morning, you invade my personal space on the couch. You _love_ me; I'm not blind."

This conversation has taken a turn for the suddenly and uncomfortably intimate. What Baird _should_ do is kiss her, or tell her that he loves her again, or even offer up a somewhat inappropriate _thank you_. But instead what he does is open is big stupid mouth and blurt out, "But Dom…"

Sam narrows her eyes. "What about Dom?"

 _Fucking shit, did I really just say that?_ It's too late to turn back now. He braces himself for what will come next. "You had feelings for him. But you didn't… choose to move on. He died, and…" And what? He doesn't know what. _Fuck, fuck, fuck._

"Damon. Is that what's been holding you back?" She sits down beside him. "Okay, let's deal with this issue once and for all, shall we? Yes, I had feelings for Dom. And yes, he died. But I did still choose to move on. I could have refused to let those feelings go and hold on to him forever, but I didn't. And I didn't just transfer my feelings for him to you, if you're worried about that."

Her voice is so warm and kind and _honest_ that Baird could just die.

When he doesn't say anything, she continues. "And, really, I liked you first."

This catches him off guard. "What?"

She chuckles. "You remember back on Vectes, when I offered you that drink? I don't just buy blokes drinks to be friendly. I had an agenda."

And now Baird truly feels like the colossal idiot that Sam is always telling him he is. "Shit. I really am a—"

"A drongo, yes. Can I pash you now?"

Baird infers the meaning of that term from the heavy look in her eyes. "I'm sorry, were you waiting for an invitation?"

Rolling her eyes, she leans forward to kiss him. It is sincere and adoring, the most honest, truthful moment they've ever shared. He can't control his needy mouth or his desperate hands, pulling her closer, feeling her warmth and revelling in it like he never has before.

They break away to catch their breath, and Baird notices the slight blush on Sam's cheeks.

"I love you," he says, trying out the words again. They still feel clunky and awkward on his tongue, but the absurd grin she gives him is worth it.

"I know. Now get your kit off."

This abrupt change of mood throws him off. "Excuse me?"

"Your trousers, soldier. Take them off." She's got that look on her face, the one where Baird knows he's either in for a world of pleasure or a lot of pain. Judging by her instructions, the former seems more likely.

"Uh—" He begins stupidly, but then Sam's fingers are undoing his fly and pulling his jeans down his legs. Before he really has time to process what's happening, she lowers her face to his crotch and his heartbreak kicks into overdrive. As much as he'd love to just sit back and enjoy what's about to happen, he's a little uneasy about what her motivations might be.

He pushes her back slightly. "Sam, you don't have to." He doesn't want her to think that she somehow owes him this because he said he loved her.

Sam folds her arms and rests them on his stomach, looking up at him with fond exasperation. "Damon," she says, suddenly very serious, "I'm not giving you a blowjob because of what you said. I'm giving you a blowjob because I love you and I want to and I _can_. Okay?"

"Um. Okay?" he says, because he doesn't know how else to respond to that.

"Good!" She gives him a wicked smile and yanks his boxers down.

His breath catches in his throat as the familiar wet heat surrounds him. He instinctively goes to bury his hand in Sam's hair before he remembers the ridiculous chain of events that put him in this position—and good lord, he does _not_ want to have to go back to Hayman and bumble through some lousy explanation as to why Sam needs her stitches redone. Freezing for a second, he instead settles his hand on her shoulder, his thumbs caressing the soft, bare skin of her collarbone.

Fuck, she's going to kill him. Six stitches and he'd nearly had a conniption; a broken leg while he was away and he'd gone to absurd lengths to contact her—lying to Major Reid, conspiring with Mathieson and _Hoffman_ , for god's sake—because he'd half-convinced himself that she was dying in a hospital bed. Every time she runs a patrol outside the fort without him, he gets this hard little knot of worry deep in his gut. But he wouldn't trade this life for anything.

He gasps and then groans as she drags her tongue filthily over the head of his dick. Her eyes are closed and she hums, sending reverberations all the way up his spine. She takes all of him into her mouth, cheeks hollowing as she sucks, and his nails dig into her shoulder, leaving tiny red marks. She really _is_ going to kill him. He can feel the pressure coiling tightly in his groin and he knows he's not going to last much longer, not when she knows him so well, knows how to make him unravel.

"Hey," he manages to choke out. "Hey, wait."

Sam pulls back with an obscene pop and cocks her head to the side, one eyebrow raised. "Yes?"

"Get up here," he growls, grabbing her and hauling her up to his mouth.

Her lips are swollen and wet and wonderful and they curve into a smile as he slides his hands up under her shirt, tracing the contours of her chest. She sucks in a sharp breath when his thumb brushes over her nipple and he would spend more time kissing her, he really would, but he is achingly hard and desperately wants to do something about that. He tugs her shirt over her head and Sam takes the hint, wriggling out of her pants and kicking them off the bed. In a fluid, practiced motion, he pulls her down towards the mattress and rolls, switching their positions before she even has time to blink.

Staring at her underneath him, naked and eager and _happy_ , a pleasantly painful feeling swells in his chest and _fuck_ he's never wanted anyone more than he wants Sam.

She shivers as his erection brushes against the inside of her thigh and he has to bite down on his bottom lip, _hard_. She's already ready for him; he can feel her want, slick against her skin. She's looking up at him, her gorgeous eyes and long eyelashes and heat in her gaze that he can't quite believe, and he wonders why the hell it took him so long to tell her.

"Damon," she says, her breath catching as he repositions himself.

He waits until she tilts her hips up to him, sheets twisted in her hands, and then thrusts into the beautiful sound of her drawn-out moan.

 

* * *

 

Baird wakes up the next morning with his arm wrapped around Sam's waist and his forehead pressed into the back of her neck. He smiles (because how could he not?) and eases himself out of bed, taking care not to rouse her. A floorboard creaks under his foot; Sam groans quietly and curls in on herself but she doesn't wake.

He tiptoes to the bathroom to freshen up and gets a look at himself in the mirror. He can't help but laugh at his reflection: a series of purple bite marks trail down his chest and his hair is an absolute disaster—Sam _really_ likes to grip his hair in bed. Splashing cold water on his face to shake the last vestiges of sleep, he heads back to the bedroom and grabs his shirt from last night off the floor. He pulls it over his head as he heads downstairs, despite Sam having told him a dozen times that he'll trip and break his neck if he keeps dressing that way.

Down in the kitchen, Baird goes straight to the freezer. He opens it and pulls out the ice cube tray, placing it on the counter as he digs through another drawer for a tea towel. Just as he's cracking the tray and dumping the ice onto the cloth, there's a knock at the door. Baird frowns, wondering who would be calling this early in the morning. He wraps up the ice into a makeshift icepack and goes to answer the door.

"Hey baby!" Cole greets him enthusiastically when Baird opens the front door. "You're late."

"Late?" Baird can't remember—oh damn, yes he can. "Ah shit." He's scheduled to run patrols today along with Cole, Dizzy and Bernie. "I can't, Cole, I'm playing nurse for the next two days."

Cole gives him a confused grin. "Say what?"

Baird sighs. "Sam gave herself a concussion yesterday and we had to go see Hayman for stitches. I'm supposed to stay with her for fifty-two hours, just in case."

"Sam needed stitches? What, you guys get in a fight or something?" Cole jokes.

"Hilarious." Baird says dryly. "No, I, ah… told her that I loved her."

The grin falls off Cole's face, replaced by a look of dumbfounded amazement; Baird almost bristles at how surprised his friend is, but he tries not to take it personally. "You actually _told_ her?" Cole asks, sounding just a little proud. "And she split her head open and got a concussion. Ha, baby, you might still need a charm lesson after all."

"No, it's not like—it's a long story." Baird rubs the back of his neck, equal parts annoyed and embarrassed to feel a flush creeping into his cheeks. "Come over after you're done your shift. I'm sure Sam would just _love_ to give you all the humiliating details."

"Ha, it's a date then." Cole gives him an appraising look before backing away. "I'll tell Hoffman that you're benched on Hayman's orders. Somehow I don't think he'll be arguing with her."

"Yeah, or it's his funeral."

Cole nods emphatically. "I'll see you at six then." Then he waggles his eyebrows conspiratorially. "Try to be decent when I come over."

"Yeah, yeah." Baird waves Cole off and closes the door. When he makes his way up the stairs to the bedroom, he finds Sam sitting up in bed. She smiles when she sees him, but he spots the tightness in her expression and knows that she must be feeling those stitches without the aid of painkillers.

"Here." He hands her the icepack. "This should take the edge off."

"And I didn't even have to say anything," she says. "Another way that I know."

He rolls his eyes, but he feels his face go hot all the same. "I'm Mr. Romantic now, apparently."

Sam hums in agreement and pats the mattress beside her. "Come back to bed. We've got no reason to be up this early."

"No, no reason at all," Baird says sarcastically, even as he climbs back under the covers. "I'm just taking care of my girlfriend."

"Shut it." She smacks his shoulder playfully. "I already said thank you."

"Actually, you didn't."

"Now you're just being argumentative."

Baird smirks impudently at her and Sam sighs dramatically. "Hey, you're the one who asked me to move in with you."

"And I live with the repercussions every day," she says with mock regret.

Before he can think of a charming rebuttal, Sam shuffles closer to him. She curls up against his body, resting her head against the curve of his shoulder and effectively pinning the makeshift icepack between the pillows and her skull. She fits so easily against his body, like she was made for that space. Or perhaps he'd been made for her to complete.

"Hey, Sam?"

"Hmm?"

"This life looks good on you."

"Why Damon," she says teasingly, her arms snaking around his neck, "I think that's the most romantic thing you've ever said to me."

**.end.**

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End file.
